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SMOTHERED FIRES 


BOOKS BY 

HARRIET T. COMSTOCK 


A Little Dusky Hero 
A Son of the Hills 
At the Crossroads 
Camp Brave Pine 
Janet of the Dunes 
Joyce of the North Woods 
Mam’selle Jo 

Princess Rags and Tatters 
Smothered Fires 
The Man Thou Gavest 
The Place Beyond the Winds 
The Shield of Silence 
The Tenth Woman 
The Vindication 
Unbroken Lines 




Smothered fires 


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Harriet \. ComstocK 



IQcubletay, Page & company 
Qar c\en City bleu) York 


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SMOTHERED FIRES 


CHAPTER I 

T HE atmosphere of the dingy court room seemed grim¬ 
mer than usual in contrast to the brilliant autumn day¬ 
light that flooded through the barred windows, making 
narrow ribbons of brightness across the place; picking out, 
here and there, a face, a group, and leaving the rest in shadow. 

Oddly enough both the prisoner at the bar of justice and 
the judge, leaning slightly forward, were touched by the 
revealing gleams. They two held the attention of all 
present and the room was very still. 

Judge Barnard Austen was about to pronounce sentence 
and there was upon his young, keen face the expression that 
always marked it at such times. There was concentration, 
sympathy, too, of the higher type, an earnest attempt to 
get the offender’s point of view, and, by so doing, mete out 
at least comparative justice. 

The case of Delmar and Carlin had been one-sided, and, as 
it turned out, a disappointing one. It had been mercifully 
brief and devoid of the slime that many had expected and 
which usually marks such trials. 

Delmar, the wealthy clubman, had been shot in his town 
apartment; shot by Mary Carlin, the prisoner now at the 
bar of justice. 

The taxicab driver who had brought the woman from the 
Pennsylvania Station the day of the tragedy had identified 
her. The hall man of the Grantland Apartments had 
identified her as the woman who had dashed past him and 
entered an elevator, just about to start, with the remark that 
she “was expected.” 

i 


2 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


He had followed her in the next car, had stood outside the 
Delmar door, hearing quiet voices within—waiting until 
such time as the visitor should depart and he might explain 
his connection in the affair; for the privacy of the tenants 
of the Grantland was sacred, and for any one to reach an 
apartment unannounced was considered a crime for which 
the hall man was held responsible. 

The hall man had also heard, in due time, the pistol shot, 
had run for a pass key and had given the alarm. Had been 
the first to enter the apartment where the accused stood 
staring at the dead man. 

To all of this testimony Mary Carlin had made no denial; 
she merely added that she had not intended killing Delmar 
and that the pistol she had used was his. 

Why she had gone to Delmar’s apartment she refused to 
say; how she had obtained the pistol she also declined to 
explain. 

That the pistol was Delmar’s there was no doubt. A friend, 
to whom he had shown the weapon earlier on the day of the 
shooting, identified it and told where Delmar had bought it. 
It was a costly inlaid toy. 

At the time of her arrest Mary Carlin declared that she was 
friendless and penniless, and so young Theodore Lewis, a 
protege of Judge Austen, had been appointed to defend her. 
The Delmars were represented by the best legal aid obtainable. 

Their services, however, had not been needed and Lewis, 
much to his disappointment, had not been given opportunity 
to prove himself with this, his first criminal case. 

“There isn’t any money in it,” Austen had said to him when 
the trial opened, “but if you manage the case well, it will 
give you some reputation. Make the woman talk. There 
is something behind this. You ought to be able to give the 
Delmar people something to buck up against, at least. You 
know my opinion of these killing affairs, but I’m dead against 
a systematic gagging and blinding of facts by money and 
influence.” 

And so Lewis had entered the fray with the ardour of one 
who, in defending the weak, was to establish his ideals. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


3 

But there had been no fray; his ideas had not been set forth, 
for he had failed to make Mary Carlin talk. She had ex¬ 
pressed regret that she must seem ungrateful; she appeared 
to be more concerned about his disappointment than about 
her own tragic state. 

“What does it matter?” she had asked. “I did the shoot¬ 
ing. I’m through—why not let it go at that?” 

There was more indifference than hardness in the woman’s 
words. She was “through,” she kept repeating; “through 
with everything.” 

Lewis had managed to extract the fact that she had not seen 
Delmar for ten years, prior to the day of the shooting, but try 
as he might he could get no evidence of Delmar’s early life 
that could tarnish the decency of the ten years in which 
Mary Carlin had held no part. If Delmar had trod devious 
ways, he had hidden his steps well. He was happily married, 
had two children, lived out of town, but kept the Grantland 
apartment for the convenience of his family. The Grant- 
land was above suspicion. 

Lewis had offered the insanity plea, but that failed. The 
woman was sane. The case had gone to the jury without 
instructions. The judge knew, the people in the court room 
knew, that the twelve men would be swayed as much by the 
evidence withheld as by that which had been brought forth. 
Judge Austen, alive and keen to every impression, had felt 
this to be unavoidable, not because of any appeal the 
wretched woman made, but from lack of it. 

Certainly the reason for any mercy shown her could not be 
misconstrued. He, himself, was about to temper justice 
with mercy. The jury had brought in three days before 
the verdict of “manslaughter.” And now the prisoner 
stood awaiting her doom with the ribbon of sunlight lying 
bright across her face, bent under the brim of her shabby 
hat. 

It was a piteous face, thin, white, and indifferent. A deep 
scar running diagonally over the left cheek had so drawn the 
muscles as to give that side of her face a sinister expression, 
while the right side held still the suggestion of softness and 


4 SMOTHERED FIRES 

past beauty which the eyes—wonderful eyes they were— 
intensified. 

The woman looked older than the age she had sworn to, but 
her evident ill health and unbecoming dress might easily ac¬ 
count for this. Her hair, abundant and brushed back de¬ 
fiantly from the sad face, had been bleached at one time, and 
now at the roots a dark line lay along the brow like a narrow 
frame. 

She was apparently friendless as she had said; at least she 
had summoned no one to her support. Alone she stood, in 
that patient attitude of the trapped, and with everything at 
stake, she seemed the least interested person in the court room. 

“ Five years. With possible reduction for good behaviour.” 

To the listeners the sentence seemed absurdly light; amaz¬ 
ingly so until the appearance of the drooping figure at the rail 
was considered. 

Five years or one, what did they mean to her? She was 
“through”; that was evident to all. It was nothing less 
than a life sentence. 

The woman was hurried away. Her slouching form faded 
into the shadowy corridor. The Carlin-Delmar case was 
finished. 

At five o’clock Austen left the court house. Just outside 
he met Theodore Lewis and stopped to speak to him. 

“I’m sorry, Lewis, that you could not get the woman to 
talk,” he said. “There’s a big story back of her, I am con¬ 
fident. She’s shielding someone at her own expense, that’s 
clear.” 

“Oh! there’s a story right enough,” Lewis agreed. “The 
case has pretty well used me up. I’ve felt all along that 
another—someone with more experience or ability—might 
have served her better.” 

“Nonsense!” Austen slapped Lewis’s back almost im¬ 
patiently. “She killed her man; if she preferred to keep her 
reason for doing so to herself, that was her own affair. She 
left the Delmars rather flat.” 

“And me, too,” Lewis murmured. “It looked like a chance 
at the start.” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


5 


The two men walked on together. 

“There was a kind of dignity about the wretched woman,” 
Austen said presently, as if he could not shake off the day’s 
clinging impressions. “I suppose she is one of those dere¬ 
licts that still preserve some kind of a code while they are 
ground in the mill.” Austen’s manner changed abruptly, as 
he asked: “Where are you going, Ted?” 

“Oh! up to the Kismet, I think. My folks are out of town. 
I’ll have dinner there and find someone to play bridge.” ; 

“Good-night, then. I’m going up home.” 

Austen had thought of going to the Kismet Club himself but 
he suddenly changed his mind. He would go to his apart¬ 
ment, order a dinner to be sent to his rooms, and—rest. He 
felt unaccountably weary; almost old. Lewis for the moment 
emphasized the difference between twenty-four and forty- 
two; there is a chasm which, at times, yawns and cannot be 
bridged. This seemed to be, for some unknown reason, one 
of the times. Usually Austen felt at his ease with the 
young, and Lewis was particularly congenial; but he wanted 
now to be alone. 

He walked on slowly while Lewis hailed a passing taxi. 
Lewis felt old and tired, too. Older by far than Austen and 
more dejected—at twenty-four one is capable of such tragic 
slumps. 

As Austen left Lewis’s youth behind him, he walked 
faster; felt less and less weary. He had been thinking of his 
first cases—that was what had overpowered him; not Lewis’s 
years, or lack of them. He had, in his sympathy, gone 
back; lost the courage and assurance that his fifteen years in 
New York had given him. That was always a dangerous 
thing to happen to him. He could not go back with im¬ 
punity. The man he had slowly builded, over the wreck of 
what he had once been, had its sharply defined limitations. 
Fifteen years of patient, conscientious building on—debris! 
Having now been forced to look back, Austen could not free 
himself. He continued to look back. Back to that time 
when at twenty-seven he had come from Los Angeles with 
his profession and a modest income. Had come to the 


6 SMOTHERED FIRES 

East because he was of the East. Had never really cared 
for the West. 

He had brought several business letters of introduction and 
had eventually entered a famous law firm in an inferior 
position in order, he said, to plant his roots in the right soil. 
He had worked desperately hard, devoted himself to the in¬ 
terests of his firm, made few social connections, but those he 
made were well chosen and deeply prized. Because he sought 
no social recognition, but bent his energies to deserving it, 
recognition became inevitable. He had much charm, of a 
quiet, humorous kind, and was always cordial and friendly. 

In due time he became a junior member of his firm, dis¬ 
tinguished himself in several important cases, branched out 
into civic affairs, and eventually won for himself an enviable 
reputation and a good income. 

Austen had, among his associates, no intimates—unless 
Lewis might be considered one; and his life was, under its 
cheerful appearance, almost austere. The making of his 
home had been his greatest distraction and dissipation. 
Like many lonely people who apparently have no need for 
such luxurious quarters, he devoted his leisure hours and his 
talents to obtaining them. 

His apartment was up in the Eighties, overlooking the 
Hudson River and the Park. It was on the top of the 
highest building in the vicinity, and it was furnished with the 
exquisite skill that was the outcome of natural and acquired 
good taste. He had studied rugs in order that he might 
select intelligently. He had respected “periods” until he 
was capable of blending them without jar or confusion. His 
rooms, while individual and artistic, were, he knew, “right.” 

Having achieved confidence with rugs and furniture, 
Austen had given himself a free hand with books and pictures. 
The draperies and hangings had been selected by Lewis’s 
mother and aunt—women of conservative and safe ideals. 

In this home Austen had lived, now, ten successful years. 
Year by year a sense of safety had grown upon him. He had 
taken courage for his friend—someone long ago had given him 
that phrase—and it had led him, if not to happiness, at least 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


7 


to peace. He entertained rarely but always delightfully. 
He liked young men and they returned his liking; sought his 
companionship and gave him their confidence in frank and 
simple fashion. He never lectured them, never openly re¬ 
proved them, but, as Lewis explained, he “looked at them 
and confined himself to giving them another try while he 
sought to get their point of view.” He never let go of any one 
in whom he became interested, and often, from sheer despair 
of shaking him off, a man would succumb to the demand Aus¬ 
ten made upon him rather than confess himself less than 
Austen believed him. 

Women did not figure largely in Austen’s life. The Lewis 
women he regarded with genuine respect and liking—he had 
served them, as they were never to know, and so, in a sense, 
they belonged to him. They presided at his dinners and 
introduced younger women to his circle. They were often 
doubtful as to the propriety of giving the stamp of their ap¬ 
proval to one of such recent date as Austen, but then “com¬ 
ing out of the West,” as Mrs. Lewis remarked, made a 
difference. The “West” was so new. Austen never re¬ 
ferred to his New England ancestry. His parents had gone 
West; he had been born there. He let it rest at that. 

Lewis had come to Austen’s notice in a dramatic way. 
With family, position, and education all in his favour, Lewis 
had, upon completing his college course, fallen into loose 
company and become the tool, rather than the leader, of men 
keener and more unscrupulous than himself. 

Austen’s firm conducted the business affairs of the Lewis 
family and when, eventually, young Lewis became involved 
in a disgraceful gambling escapade and was threatened with 
exposure unless a considerable sum of money was forthcom¬ 
ing, he, to the surprise of himself and Austen, faced the 
situation squarely in the latter’s private office. 

“Why did you come here?” Austen was interested and 
curious. “Have you any way of getting this money you 
need?” 

“No. Unless you can arrange it for me.” Lewis was 
looking frankly, if rather desperately, at Austen. 


8 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“Any woman involved ?” 

“No!” Lewis’s head lifted unconsciously. “They don’t 
happen to be my special temptation.” 

“I’m glad of that.” Austen looked it. 

“I can hardly expect you to understand,” Lewis con¬ 
tinued, “but in coming to you I am thinking more of my 
mother and my aunt than of myself. I don’t want the thing 
bungled for their sakes.” He paused, fearing that Austen 
was about to remind him that he should have thought of this 
before, but Austen did not, he simply looked at the boy be¬ 
fore him and waited. 

“Of course, I dread facing the music. Who wouldn’t? 
But I hate worse to have them face it—my mother has suf¬ 
fered enough.” 

At that moment Austen recalled things he had heard about 
Lewis’s father, and he dropped his eyes. 

“Sometimes I think,” Lewis went on, “that you have to get 
something out of your system—I had to, though you may not 
believe that—and it’s out.” 

“How do you know?” Austen enquired simply. 

“Because I do. That’s all. It’s out.” 

“I believe it is!” Austen said quietly, unexpectedly. 
Then he added: “I’m glad you came here, Lewis. It was a 
wise thing to do. Let me see, you took a law course, didn’t 
you ?” 

“Yes.” 

“What are you going to do with it?” 

“I’m going to use it!” 

“Well, come here with us.” 

“You mean-?” Lewis stared. 

“Come here and prove yourself. I began at the bottom 
and worked up.” 

“But the money?” 

“I’ll give you my personal check. I shall expect you to 
pay me at your convenience. Don’t ask me why I am doing 
this for you. I do not know. That ought to give you 
confidence in yourself.” 

All this had happened three years before. When Lewis 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


9 

took Mary Carlin’s case he was out of Austen’s debt but 
deep in his affections. 

Something of all this was running through Austen’s mind 
as he reached his home; it accounted for his depression at 
Lewis’s failure to succeed with his first case. He wanted 
Lewis to succeed. The irritation arose from affection and 
sympathy; the sensation was painful. It caused him to 
remember as well as to anticipate. 

He left his order for dinner with the girl at the desk and took 
the elevator. 

His quiet rooms held a welcome for him—the mute welcome 
of dearly cherished, inanimate things. Someone was moving 
about in the kitchen—that was the maid, Sheila O’Neil. 
She always awaited Austen or a telephone message before she 
left for the day, and while she moved about she was singing 
softly. 

Austen went to the west windows and raised the sashes. 
The cool autumn air rushed in; off in the near distance the 
river lay tranquil with a broad path of golden light from 
shore to shore. He watched it dim and fade. 

“Did you call, sir?” 

Sheila, a compact, cheerful person, stood in the doorway. 

“I will dine at home to-night, Sheila. I have left the 
order for dinner.” 

“Very well, sir.” 

“I—hope”—Austen was always considerate—“I hope 
you had not planned to go early. I had intended to dine 
out.” 

“I keep to my hours, sir, with plans and wishes.” 

“That is most businesslike.” Austen smiled. Then: 
“Serve the dinner at once, Sheila, when it is sent up.” 

It was while he was finishing his coffee, later, at the 
library table, that the telephone rang. Austen put the 
receiver to his ear. 

“This is Lewis. I must see you. If you have an en¬ 
gagement I’ll wait. May I come up to your place?” 

“Of course. I’m not going out. Anything wrong?” 

“I’ll tell you when I see you. Thanks.” 


10 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


Austen leaned back, sipped the rest of his coffee, and felt 
drowsy. In the distance Sheila was again singing. How 
cheerful the sound was; how it mingled with the city noises 
that came into the opened windows, like musical notes blend¬ 
ing with the song of the girl in the kitchen. How peaceful; 
how- 

“Is there anything else, sir?” 

Austen started. He had been asleep. He felt wonderfully 
refreshed—almost exhilarated. 

“Nothing, thank you. Good-night, Sheila.” 

Then how quiet the house was again. The girl seemed to 
have taken all sound with her. 

At eight-thirty Lewis arrived. He had a key to Austen’s 
apartment and entered at will. He came directly to the 
library. Austen was startled by his appearance. 

“Something is wrong!” he said. “Sit down and take it 
easy, Ted. When you see a black horror creeping up the 
string you hold, let go! That ends the horror. You look as 
if you’d seen a ghost. There ain’t any such animal. You 
think so at twenty-four. After forty you know there isn’t.” 

While he talked Austen went to a cabinet, brought out a 
bottle of wine and a glass. These he put on the table and 
pushed them toward Lewis. 

“ Not now.” Lewis shook his head. “ It’s the Carlin case.” 

“I thought that was ended, Ted. What’s the matter?” 

“I thought that it was ended, too, but I was wrong.” 

“ She has talked at last—when it is too late ?” Austen asked, 
sadly. 

“No, but she wants to talk—to you.” 

“She cannot be sane. This is preposterous.” 

“I told her that, but she insists, and I have come to urge 
you to see her. After she went back to her cell she had a bad 
attack—heart, I think. They thought that she was dying. 
She asked for me and they had some difficulty in finding me. 
When I got to the prison she told me that she had intended to 
write to you after she was put away, but that now there might 
not be time. She wants to tell you why she shot Delmar. 
She says that it means life or death to an innocent person. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


ii 


I think myself that she is dying. She told me that if she had 
spoken before she might not have been believed, might have 
been suspected of seeking leniency for herself, but that 
now-” 

“ But,” Austen broke in impatiently, “she is out of my juris¬ 
diction. 

“We can easily arrange that, Barney.” 

“It is grotesque, a cheap anti-climax.” 

“Barney, will you do this for me?” Lewis gave up 
reasoning. 

“Very well, Ted, for you then, though I dislike taking part 
in the affair. Order a taxi while I get into my coat.” 



CHAPTER II 


r 


I T WAS after nine when Austen was shown into Mary 
Carlin’s cell and the door clanked to after him. 

The light from the corridor fell full upon the woman 
seated on her cot, her head bowed in her hands. Austen 
took the stool and drew it near, and sitting down said, hardly 
above a whisper: “I have come.” 

As though she had not realized it before, Mary Carlin looked 
up and then got upon her feet, choosing, as she did so, to stand 
in the light. 

Austen had never seen her before without hat and coat; he 
noticed now how emaciated she was, how deadly pale. Then 
she spoke, her words coming unevenly, feverishly: “Now 
do you know me?” 

“Yes—no!” 

Austen was fending off a menace; he was confused by the 
question. 

“Then keep on looking until you do.” There was a piteous 
appeal in the words. 

As one looks into a dark room until his eyes become accus¬ 
tomed to the gloom and can discern objects, Austen looked. 
Gradually it was as if he were penetrating into the gloom 
that lay back of the last fifteen years—the woman must be¬ 
long there! The silence was sickening; it got at the heart 
and seemed to still it, but the brain worked fiercely. Sud¬ 
denly all the guarded safety of Austen’s life crumbled, he 
seemed to stand naked and alone in the ruin, with this 
woman. Off in the distance someone gave a mad scream, and 
both Austen and Mary Carlin started and came back to the 
present. 

“The scar,” she whispered in that sick, guttural voice, and 
touched the disfiguring mark with her trembling hand. “It 


12 


SMOTHERED FIRES 13 

has saved me, that and the life I have led; but you know me 
now ?” 

“Yes. I know you.” Austen’s words came in a thick 
undertone. He and the woman sounded like conspirators. 
Then, savagely: “And you let me go through with this—my 
God! You permitted me to sentence you—my wife! Kath¬ 
leen, how could you do so monstrous a thing?” 

Then Austen closed his eyes to shut out the sight of the 
woman who had wrought so evil a thing after all the years of 
silence. 

Mary Carlin swayed as she sank back on the cot. She had 
passed her Rubicon; had strength only to reach her goal 
by the least possible effort. “I—I could not help it,” she 
moaned. “And when I saw that you did not know me, it did 
not seem to matter. In a way, I was almost glad that you, 
not another, had it to do. It was like—well, a kind of awful 
justice.” 

“Don’t! For heaven’s sake, spare me, Kathleen.” Austen 
got up and walked the narrow space of the prison cell. Pres¬ 
ently he came back and sat down upon the stool. “Will 
you leave us out of it and tell me what you have sent for me to 
hear?” he asked in a dazed, helpless way. He knew that all 
the future must bear the mark of this hour, but he pleaded for 
delay. Later he could adjust the suffering as he had ad¬ 
justed other agony of spirit. 

“I wish that I might. But if I tell you about Delmar, 
I must tell the rest. I shot him because—first, because he 
would not give me money, and secondly, because he would not 
go to you and tell what—I must tell you now.” 

“Why should he come? I never heard of him in my life 
until this trial.” 

The woman on the cot looked up desperately. There 
seemed so little time to tell what must be told and yet she 
must make the attempt. 

“Delmar was Tilden,” she said faintly. 

“Tilden!” Austen sprang to his feet as if an electric cur¬ 
rent had gone through his body. 

“Yes. When Tilden left Los Angeles that time, and after 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


14 

the scandal that followed my being found with him in San 
Francisco, he went to England. A cousin had died; a man 
of his own age; there was money, and in order to get it Tilden 
had to assume the name. It all took time.” 

“I begin to see!” Austen groaned, and Mary Carlin went 
on: 

“When you married me, you thought you saved me. But 
I—I couldn’t give Tilden up. There hadn’t been any wrong. 
Before I married you, I was just a fool; but afterward you 
would not believe that, not even when the baby came.” 

“No, I could not.” Austen breathed the words. 

“You—you believed the—the baby was not yours. I saw 
it in your eyes, and that look drove me back to Tilden. I 
was afraid of you. I had tried to do right for the baby, but I 
couldn’t bear that look in your eyes day after day. When 
Tilden became Delmar, he wrote to me; wanted me to come 
to him—but I—I couldn’t give the baby up—I did not know 
what you would do.” 

The haggard face twitched painfully; the scar became livid. 

“And then Tilden played high. He was like that. He’d 
pay any price in counterfeit coin for what he wanted. He 
told me to come to him and bring the baby. That he’d 
marry me—and adopt the baby.” 

Austen could not speak; his bowed head was buried in his 
hands. 

“And—you did—nothing,” the woman continued. “Just 
let us go. Told me to take what was mine and go!” 

“What was there for me to do ?” The question was wrung 
from Austen. 

“You—you could have got a divorce—anything but what 
you did do—nothing!” 

“I did not want a divorce—then. I was too busy trying 
to live; to forget!” 

“I was desperate, for Tilden held it over me. He would 
not do anything either. For a time he supported the baby, 
but he would not let me keep it. I could only go to see her— 
I placed her as well as I could; people believed she was Del- 
mar’s child.” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


i5 

A cold, groping fear was entering Austen’s numbed brain; 
something elusive, sinister, but creeping nearer. 

“Tilden and I were in England when I was injured in an 
accident. This happened.” The woman touched the scar. 
“Tilden couldn’t bear the sight of me—he was tired of me, 
anyway. He left five thousand dollars for me with his lawyers 
and disappeared. I promised the lawyers to leave Tilden 
alone. I wanted to—to be good for—for the baby. After 
awhile I came home. I think I must have been mad, but I 
kept thinking of the baby and you, and the old, safe life. I 
wrote to you, but you never answered!” 

“I was away—in Vermont,” Austen muttered. “The let¬ 
ter went to Los Angeles, was forwarded to New York. When 
I got it I tried to locate you, but you had gone.” 

“Well, I let go then,” the woman continued. “The money 
went and there were other men—men less particular—and I 
changed my name with my address. I couldn’t go to—to the 
baby. I wanted her to remember me as I was before I was dis¬ 
figured. It was queer, but I wanted that more than anything! 

“Then I became ill. They told me I would die. I had kept 
Tilden in sight and I went to him! I was desperate. He was 
frightened at first; then he grew ugly. Said that he would 
have me arrested for blackmail. I begged for a little money. 
He taunted me. Then I begged that he would go to you and 
tell you the truth about the baby. I told him that I had 
written and asked you to see me, but that you had not an¬ 
swered. It was he who told me that you were in New York; 
told me how you had succeeded. Then he said terrible 
things to me, things that drove me mad. There was a pistol 
on his desk. He reached out, played with it while he taunted 
me, and then I got it from him. I-■” 

The words ended in a dry, clucking sound. 

“I shot him!” 

Off in the distance that crazy, drunken cry again sounded, 
but neither Austen nor Mary Carlin moved. Like figures 
carved from stone, they sat and stared ahead of them. 

“What more is there for me to hear?” Austen was warding 
off that elusive and threatening menace. 


i6 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“There is the child/’ 

“The child?” Austen braced now for the blow. “Delmar’s 
child?” 

“The child is yours.” 

“You lie!” Austen drew back as if a physical, polluting 
touch had stung him. “You lie! Do you think, after all 
these years, you can drag me down again ?” 

“The child is yours.” Pitifully, hopelessly the words fell. 
“You see, I had to keep it. I loved it. There was no other 
way—and I saw by the look in your eyes that you did not 
believe the baby was yours. Not until I ran away the second 
time was I anything to Tilden. I know. I know I was a 
fool. Things were against me, but something had held me 
back, and I suppose that was what made Tilden play high. 
He wanted me.” 

Looking at the wreck near him, Austen shuddered. 

“That is why I let the thing go through—this, this trial. 
When I saw you , I died. Really, it seemed that I died. 
And then, just as if I were dead, but was allowed to come 
back for a moment, I thought—if he sees that I want nothing 
for myself he will believe about the child. You know I am 
speaking the truth. The worst woman can speak the truth at 
times. Oh! can you not tell that I am speaking the truth?” 

And Austen knew, at last, that she was! As one knows 
death when he sees it, so at times one feels truth although it 
may be enmeshed in evil. 

The woman’s voice ran monotonously on. 

“I will soon be dead. I cannot hurt you any more—but 
she, oh! go to her; save her or God will never let you rest. 
I do not matter; I deserve what you—you have sentenced 
me to, but-” 

Austen could stand no more. Burying his face in his hands 
he groaned aloud. 

“Hush! Someone will come,” Mary Carlin cautioned; al¬ 
ready she had learned the cunning of the trapped. 

Someone was coming, the matron paused by the door and 
looked in. Austen sat up rigidly. A deathly calm came to 
his aid. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


n 


“Where is the child ?” he asked. 

"I’ve written it down. Here!” From out her bosom 
Mary Carlin drew an envelope and passed it to Austen. 

"I—I cannot go to prison and be shut in a cell—it will 
drive me mad—unless you will promise.” 

“I promise.” Austen staggered to his feet. His white 
tortured face turned away from the crouching form on the cot. 

“I promise.” So might he comfort the dying. 

“Good-bye. And—never let her know. Let her keep me 
as she remembers me—children do remember things that 
happened when they were five or six. Let her keep me as I 
was. You’ll be glad some day if you do, for unless they have 
let her—go wrong—she is lovely. She is the lovely kind; 
it would be hard to kill the loveliness of her. You must save 
her!” Mary Carlin drooped back on her cot. “Go now,” 
she murmured. “That’s all.” 

A few minutes later Austen and Lewis were out in the cool* 
starlit night. 

“Shall we walk?” Lewis knew that something tremen¬ 
dous had happened to Austen. It was as if he had passed 
through an experience that had changed him chemically. 

“Yes, let us walk.” 

For a few blocks they strode on in silence, and then Austen 
spoke: 

“Ted, are you willing to let me use you without much 
explanation? Can you, are you willing to stand the final 
test of friendship ?” 

“If you will honour me by testing me, Barney.” 

It was very simply said, but it warmed Austen’s heart. 

“Ted, Mary Carlin is shielding someone; we were right about 
that. Years ago I knew Mary Carlin by another name. 
Dissipation, illness, an accident, have changed her beyond 
recognition, but she has convinced me of the truth of her 
identity and the reason for her sacrifice. She is shielding 
someone she cruelly wronged. The shielding must go on. 
For the sake of the wretched woman’s family I must respect 
her wishes, but I must not be identified with her case at 
present. As her counsel-” 


i8 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“Of course!” Lewis broke in. He was thinking of the 
damnable trick Fate had dealt Austen. “And you never 
guessed—during the trial?” 

“Not for a moment. She is unbelievably changed—not 
only in looks. She has just enough decency left to want to 
shield them she has harmed. Naturally this is a great shock 
to me, Ted. Make it as easy as you can for this woman; 
get her in hospital, if you can. That would be more bearable.” 

“ I think I understand, Barney. As her lawyer I can do this 
without causing comment.” 

“Of course.” 

For a dozen blocks more the two swung along in a silence 
that drew them together rather than drove them apart. 

“All this occurs just when I have other and most important 
business on hand.” Austen was the first to break the silence. 
Already, as he had done once before when his life was shat¬ 
tered, he began to build on shifting sand. His mind worked 
quickly, recklessly; he must go on, but he felt that at any 
moment he might sink if he paused too long to consider his 
next step. 

“A client has left to my supervision a daughter. The girl 
has no one but me to look after her interests. I am going 
to see her, place her in a school, if that seems best. I gather 
that she has been neglected. Naturally this business will 
absorb me for the time being.” 

Austen, driven by desperation, planned better than he real¬ 
ized. He diverted Lewis from Mary Carlin by this new turn 
of affairs. 

“You’re always taking up dead men’s burdens, Barney,” 
Lewis said. “Can’t you slip from under this one?” 

“ Perhaps, after I’ve looked the matter over.” Austen was 
getting control of himself, reducing things to normal. “And 
just keep in touch with this Carlin case,” he said, gripping 
Lewis’s hand. “I tell you, Ted, the death strangle a weak 
creature can get on the strong is the very devil. Innocent 
suffering with the guilty? Why, they oftener do all the 
suffering. But in this case there is something to be said for 
Mary Carlin.” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


19 


Austen raised the shield, wrought through his safe years, 
between him and Lewis, but he smiled over it in friendly ap¬ 
preciation of Lewis’s cooperation. 

“Are her people ever likely to find out?” Lewis asked. 

“Not if we do our parts well, Ted.” 

“I’ll try to serve her better in the future than I have in the 
past, Barney. Good-night!” 

Austen, on reaching his rooms, sank wearily down in a 
chair by the library hearth. It was a clean-swept hearth 
with kindlings and logs laid ready to light. Austen stared 
at it as if it were symbolic. 

The shock he had received had benumbed him. He was 
slowly recovering, but each sensation gave him pain and an 
almost fierce determination to preserve, at any cost, the 
position his hard-fought fight had gained. He meant to do, 
to the uttermost, his duty, but he would so include that duty 
into his well-ordered life as to avoid a second calamity. He 
was not hard—every nerve quivered when he thought of Mary 
Carlin’s fate and his part in it—but in saving himself he would 
in some way save her, he argued. She would die soon. 
After that he could go on without fear if he left nothing be¬ 
hind him that later might betray him. Better to accept 
anything, even the child, than to leave a clue. 

As feeling asserted itself through the numbness, like the 
pricking of a sharp instrument, certain things Mary Carlin 
had said made him wince. With everything against her she 
had tried to be good for her child; the child that, in his 
young and hot rebellion, he had spiritually denied before he 
had verbally expressed himself. She had seen it in his eyes! 
Had lived with him while he silently denounced her. She had 
been afraid of him. Well! if there was a hard streak in him, 
if he had once failed where he might have saved, he had 
suffered and paid, God knew. He must not fall again this 
side of mercy. Perhaps if he did what he could now he might 
again, sometime, know peace and happiness. 

Paid! Yes, he had paid. In turning his back on the 
ruins of his life, in refusing to set his wife free, he had but 


20 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


lengthened the chain which held her to him. He had forged 
a ball that dragged him when most he had longed to go on 
unencumbered. He had realized that when it was too late. 

He had been so young; so cruelly disillusioned; had be¬ 
lieved that never again would he have faith in woman. But 
there had come a time when he recognized his error. At that 
time, with everything at stake, he had been forbidden, by 
the father of the woman he loved, to speak until he had 
cleared his life of any claim that might be made upon it. 

Then it was that Mary Carlin had written to him—ap¬ 
pealed in her desperation to him. The letter had gone 
astray, had been long in reaching him, and when he at last set 
forth to do that which he should have done years before, the 
trail was lost. Under an assumed name the discarded mis¬ 
tress of Delmar had escaped. And, in misunderstood silence, 
he had accepted his doom. 

Yes, he had paid. Dropped chains were not broken chains 
he had learned to his sorrow. He had dragged on fearing, 
hoping, then dully accepting; thankful that he had not 
spoken, hoping that the woman had forgotten him; had never 
really cared—she had been so young, so sheltered! Always 
he hoped that she had escaped suffering, but always he had 
remembered her, paid lonely homage to his ideal of her. 
He had kept in touch with her, superficially, for a time, and 
then had accepted what seemed to him inevitable, and 
plodded on alone. 

Yes, he had paid. And even prison bars could not restrain 
the reaching, devastating power that had all but wrecked his 
life, and might yet do so unless he controlled it. That was it. 
Until death ended the tyranny of weakness he must never 
again let it elude him. 

The child—that it was his, he now believed—did not move 
him. It must be the force, however, to control the situation. 
Everything must be in his hands from now on. Never again 
must he make the mistake of thinking that he could escape. 
One had to return and take up dropped burdens; he had 
learned that. Better bear them, disguise them as blessings 
if possible, but never turn one’s back upon them. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


21 


Slowly, painfully, reaction was setting in. The carefully 
constructed man of the past fifteen years was reasserting 
himself. Austen drew a deep breath as one does emerging 
from an anaesthetic. 

The wind was rising. In the living room beyond the li¬ 
brary, the curtains, at an open window, swayed to and fro, 
like a slim white ghost seeking a familiar scene. 

A ghost! The idea caught and held Austen’s fancy. He 
meant to close the window in a moment, but . . . The 

clock ticked slower and slower—was it running down? He 
must wind it; he was careless about clocks and watches—they 
were always running down. Running . . . down. Still 

he did not stir. 

And then a strange experience claimed him. He always 
was able to realize, by certain memories of hearing and seeing, 
that the state he fell into at that moment was like that which 
might follow immediately upon death and before the spirit 
has taken entire command. 

There was only one conscious sensation and that was the 
lack of sensation. How long he sat, leaning back in his chair, 
quiet, unresisting, Austen never knew, for when he next 
looked at his watch and clock they had ceased to record time! 
But suddenly he was awake—vitally, painfully awake. 
Every sound hurt him—the street noises and the flappping 
of the shade and curtain over the open window. He smelled 
—faded flowers. Yes, there they were in a bowl on a small 
table—faded flowers! 

In moving his limbs, Austen was at first conscious of a 
tingling discomfort, and then it was as if he were released! 
His mind and body functioned as they had not in years. He 
was free! Free as only the dead can be who have realized the 
resurrection. 

He need no longer play a part to himself, at least. Had 
he been playing a part ? He was to be as other men were who 
were not bound by an invisible tie. A real danger had 
passed. From now on he need not listen to the clanking of a 
chain; he would never again know the tugging of the ball! 
In a sense the links were broken. 


22 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


Austen sat up, drew another long breath, and took from 
his pocket the envelope Mary Carlin had given him. 

Strange that he should have this sense of release while the 
woman, by his sentence, was behind bars and her burden 
had fallen upon him. But in spite of all he did feel the 
marvellous relief as he tore the envelope open and read: 

She is with a Mrs. Anna Thomley, Bluff End, Cape North, Mass. 
I only dropped your name—she is known as Verity Leighton; she is 
believed to be Delmar’s child. 

Verity Leighton! Austen read and re-read the name. 

It had been his mother’s. He remembered that at the 
child’s birth he had tried to strangle his suspicions and doubts; 
had even sworn, to himself, that he would accept and protect 
if so he might save. Looking at the pale, lovely girl on the 
bed in that tragic chamber of birth, he had risen to heights 
never before or since attained. In giving] the baby his 
mother’s name he had sent a challenge forth. 

Well, the name had not been taken from the child. 

Austen got up and went to close the window in the living 
room. As he did so he heard a clock from some distant 
tower strike—two! 

He looked out into the night “ always darkest before the 
dawn.” He paused; peering into the blackness that seemed 
solidly pressing against the window. 

The dawn! Somehow the word had new significance. 

Forty-two—and still the dawn was possible. 

“I must start for Massachusetts,” Austen decided as he 
wound his watch, “as soon as I can arrange business.” 


CHAPTER III 


T HE soft October breeze passed over Bluff End without 
stirring the long beach grass—it was a high, frolicking 
wind with ambitions above the dunes and the anchored 
boats in the lovely harbour. 

There was no hint of frost in the air, but already the under¬ 
growth that persisted, in spite of sand and rock, was red and 
glistening. The ocean rolled up against the Point at full 
tide; it had touched its highest line—not more than a hundred 
yards from the white fence of the little churchyard which 
nestled by the small chapel known as St. Mark-on-the-Dunes. 
This church had once been supported by the summer colony 
that had appreciated its artistic appearance. 

When strangers suggested that the chapel and graves 
were perilously near the ocean, old Ezra Taber—a man who 
walked with God—remarked that “the sea knew its Master 
and that its tides were in His hands. And as for the 
dead/’ the old man added, “no harm can come to them. 
We lay them facing the sea and when their calls come, they 
rise and seek the havens where they would be.” 

Ezra knew no book but his Bible, and he drew his inspira¬ 
tion from it in thought and speech. 

“More than once,” he confided, “I have fancied at morn 
or evening that I have seen them rise, pause, and reach out 
to follow the call.” 

The simple people of the Bluff believed this to be literal 
truth, and it was always a pretty fancy for the colony. 

It was high noon of an October day when a fifteen-year-old 
girl stood beside a grave in the old churchyard looking down 
at the work of her little earth-stained hands. 

She was a slender thing, with her scant garments, like a 
winding sheet, lashed about her by the wind. Her hair, 

23 


24 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


light as the foam, but amber in colour, blew across her face—• 
a wonderful face with eyes that matched the hair; black- 
lashed they were and set wide apart and filled with a tender 
sadness that was belied by the laughing, joyous mouth. 

Her eyes had the sadness of an inherited past, the mouth pro¬ 
claimed the divine control of the future with its promise of 
life and happiness. 

The grave at the girl’s feet was covered with moist and 
glistening seaweed interwoven with purple asters and golden- 
rod. The blanket of flowers had been carefully selected and 
placed. At the head of the grave was a plain piece of board 
bearing these words: 

Here lies an Unknown Woman 
Washed ashore December- 

The date was obliterated. 

The girl knelt and read and re-read the words as if she 
had never seen them before, and yet that sunken grave was a 
shrine to her; a possession that she had appropriated and 
cared for with fantastic devotion. 

“Some day,” she had confided to old Ezra, “I am going to 
have a beautiful stone put here, and it is to bear a lovely name. 
I do not like the ‘Unknown Woman’; it seems so lonely.” 

“I reckon,” old Ezra had comforted, “that He who counts 
the hairs of our heads and notes the sparrow’s fall hasn’t 
lost sight of this woman what drifted to us. He’ll call her by 
name when He bids her arise.” 

That had given the child comfort but had not altered her 
purpose. She drew now, from the tall grasses at her feet, 
another board, on which she had carved, in crude and 
crooked characters, these words: 

Here lies my Mother. 

It seemed desecration to remove the old mark and re¬ 
place it by the new but it must be done, and so the girl set to 
work. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


25 


Rarely did any one but herself come to the deserted spot; 
no one would ever know except old Ezra, and he would 
understand. She could always convince Ezra. 

It was done at last, the daring deed, and the despoiler 
stood off to regard her handiwork. 

“Maybe now,” she whispered, “I can believe; maybe now 
I can stop watching and longing; maybe now I can make 
you seem dead.” 

There were hot blinding tears in the wide, lovely eyes of 
the girl, and presently she crouched down by the flower-decked 
grave and recalled certain sacred memories as though they 
were tangible things that must be buried with the holy dead. 

A garden and a little summerhouse! The picture arose 
clearly. In the summerhouse was a table—there were eight 
corners to the table—just eight! There were three stiff 
rustic chairs that hurt one to sit on, if one wore short frocks 
and abbreviated socks, but there was one rocking chair quite 
comfortable and roomy, large enough and strong enough to 
hold a wonderful woman and a very remarkably small girl. 

The small girl was always waiting and watching for the 
wonderful woman who came seldom but who was the one 
great happening in the small girl’s life. A happening worth 
waiting for; worth being painfully good for, and remembering 
above all else. 

One must never cry when the wonderful woman came, 
because that wasted time and made things blurry. One 
must laugh and dance and be very jolly and promise any¬ 
thing while the wonderful woman was with one. After¬ 
ward, in the long spaces of time when nothing mattered, one 
could cry and yearn and no one would know. And the won¬ 
derful woman was named Momsie. That meant Mother, of 
course, but it sounded so much more private. 

And the small girl was Ducky-darling. That was private, 
too. No one but Momsey and the small girl knew why cun¬ 
ning little ducks were embroidered on tiny handkerchiefs and 
delectable little nighties. Why, those magic symbols could 
dry tears and drive shadows away when nights were long and 
dark and the waiting in the garden became tiring. 


26 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“I cannot seem to make you dead/’ the girl in the high 
grass moaned, “but it’s better to believe you dead than to be¬ 
lieve that you’ve cast me off.” 

Yes; those were the words that had driven the girl to the 
doing of what she had done. 

And presently, because she was exhausted by her emotions, 
she sank by the grave, and fell asleep. And as she slept, 
old Ezra, sitting in the sun by his cabin door, looked up from 
the net he was mending and saw a stranger close to him. 

“Could you tell me where a Mrs. Anna Thomley lives?” 

It was Austen who spoke, and his glance wandered over the 
clutter of huts stretching along the beach. 

Without dropping his net, Ezra replied quietly: 

“Well, now, sir, you won’t be finding her hereabouts.” 
Ezra was estimating the stranger; sparring for time. “You 
must take to the highway, walk a bit toward the Point; there 
you’ll come to what’s known as the summer colony—it’s 
closed now, mostly falling to ruin. On the near edge of the 
colony and before you come to a little church and grave¬ 
yard, there’s a trifling-looking yellow house—that’s Mrs. 
Thomley’s. There ain’t anything ’twixt this and that. 
You won’t find her, as you might say, to home, for she 
passed this way yesterday and took the night boat to Boston. 
In a day or so she’ll drift back—that’s her way.” 

“Is there a child living with Mrs. Thomley?” 

“Set, sir, set!” Ezra pointed to an upturned lobsterpot 
near by. “I reckon you’re asking after little Verity—little 
gal Verity.” The old, quivering lips trembled. What dis¬ 
trust Ezra might have had for the stranger disappeared 
at the mention of Verity. 

“Yes.” Austen took the indicated seat. Here was a 
golden opportunity, and his legal mind grasped it. “Yes, lit¬ 
tle girl Verity, that is her name.” 

“Well, sir, she alias useter hold that something was going 
to turn up and like as not it has. You have turned up and 
are asking for her. Many’s the time she’s run to me and 
told me that she’d had a queer feelin’ and knew that some¬ 
thing was about to happen. Lately she’s left off having the 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


27 


feeling, got sorter discouraged, like as not, but Eve alias told 
her to hold to her faith—that the feeling was the God in her 
—and she’s done her best, poor lass. You’ve come friendly- 
wise, sir?” 

Austen nodded. 

“Then ye be sent by God, sir, for the time has come when 
the men and boys set their eyes on little gal Verity. She’s 
growing up, sir, and I’ve feared for her. I’ve laid it before 
the Lord and like as not you’re His answer. You’ll likely 
find the lass at the yellow house, sir, or failing that she’ll be 
drifting about the Point. In passing, look into the grave¬ 
yard: the lass might be there. She takes rare comfort there 
at times.” 

“What do you know of Mrs. Thomley and the child?” 
Austen felt safe enough questioning the old man. In an 
hour after leaving him the incident would, in all probability, 
pass from the ancient creature’s mind. 

“We don’t know, what you might say, anything. Living 
and dead float on to the Bluff betimes. We bury the dead 
and make place for the living. We don’t ask no questions; 
we don’t borrow trouble.” Ezra was again on guard. 
“Mrs. Thomley came some years back and built the comical 
yellow house and took boarders.” This with a sniff. “ Board¬ 
ers! I alias hold it’s best to leave that business to them 
what understands the trade. They was drippings as Mrs. 
Thomley got; sometimes they stuck and overlapped their 
welcome among us all, as is the way with off-enders. There 
was some young fellows and women once as had to be dealt 
with for loud actions, but after that Mrs. Thomley was more 
particular. Then there was a mess of sickly folk that didn’t 
last long, and then some witless ones, and alias the little gal 
Verity. She’s persisted unto now like something God Him¬ 
self sorter left to be called for; just her and Mrs. Thomley.” 

The dim old eyes overflowed. 

“Little gal Verity. Lord ’a’ massy, sir, the whimsy ways 
of the critter. She can make your hair stand on end— 
’lowing you have any—by her tales. Seeing things, she calls 
it. And she has the gift of healing. She drifts about, pass- 


28 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


ing her little hand over an aching head or a hot body and, 
God hearing me, she cures like Him as did the same by 
Galilee’s sea. And her singing, sir! God a’mighty, Fve 
heard her, as she stood on the Bluff singing her wild songs, till 
the heart of me leaped in my old, stiff body, fearing as she’d 
be blown, song and all, past the ken of us here.” 

The old man was garrulous enough where Verity was con¬ 
cerned. 

“And then, again, sir, the gal Verity seems like the limb 
of Satan let loose. She can clip an oath with the best skipper 
on the Bluff, she can run wild with the boys till they lose 

their heads, and then-” Here Ezra chuckled and choked 

and went on brokenly: “And then I’ve seen her take an oar 
and beat the rascals off like they was birds of evil prey— 
them cursing her and she cursing them.” 

“I think”—Austen rose as if he had tarried too long while 
a soul was in danger—“I think I’ll try and find the girl 
Verity: have a talk with her, win her confidence if I can be¬ 
fore Mrs. Thomley returns. Is there a place where I can 
stay until Mrs. Thomley comes back ?” 

“There’s the Lord’s Room in my cabin,” Ezra got up 
stiffly and spread his arms as if in welcome; “there’s a room 
in my cabin and a plate at my board for any one the Lord 
may send us. Of late the Lord has used them but rarely, 
but they are ready—you are welcome.” 

Austen was touched. 

“And how,” he asked, “can you depend upon your guests 
being sent by God?” 

“The Lord is mindful of His own.” The old man raised 
his head with quaint dignity. “I’ve seen many a miracle 
performed in the Lord’s Room, sir, more than once. ’Tis 
the Lord’s way to work out His plans in His own fashion. 
I’ve welcomed them as came to harm me, but I’ve seen them 
depart with the light of heaven in their eyes.” 

“I can imagine that.” Austen offered his hand. “I will 
accept your hospitality,” he said, “and try to prove my 
gratitude for the privilege of sharing your roof.” 

And then Austen took to the sandy road and set his face 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


29 


toward the Point, where gleamed the tall, slim lighthouse 
against the calm blue of the peaceful sky. 

The tang of the sea was in his nostrils. Not in years had 
he felt the enjoyment he now felt in the touch of the breeze 
on his face, the feel of the warm, dry sand beneath his feet. 
His senses seemed tuned to the environment, and the weari¬ 
ness and noise of the city were but memories in his thought. 

He felt that he was going forward led by a power that he, 
strangely enough, was content to submit his will to; his mood 
was one of reverent acquiescence. He was not conscious of 
being dragged to his task but gently pushed to it by unerring 
wisdom. It was a new sensation, one which, a time back, 
he would have resisted. 

Presently he came to the clutter of cheap bungalows known 
as the summer colony—they were all closed and boarded, 
only one, a giddy yellow house, larger than the others, 
showed signs of life. Tattered awnings fluttered from a 
broad porch upon which opened doors and windows guiltless 
of shades or screens. Flowers bloomed about the weedy 
paths—late asters and goldenrod. 

Austen went to the front door and knocked repeatedly, but 
only a seven-toed beach cat responded with a trail of gray 
kittens at her heels. She meowed in friendly fashion, curved 
her back sociably, and disappeared. 

Then Austen walked on—fixing his thought upon the light¬ 
house. The highway becoming sandier and dustier, he 
sought the graveyard as a short cut and gratefully set his 
tired feet upon the sunburned grass. He had walked but a 
few yards when he stopped, transfixed. Rising, apparently 
from a grave, was a young, weird thing who gazed at him 
through a tangle of gold hair with eyes that held him by their 
beauty and pathos. 

He knew instantly from the old man’s description that 
Verity Leighton stood before him, and he went directly to her. 

“ You are Verity Leighton,” he said, offering his hand. He 
desired, above all else, to avoid startling the apparition be¬ 
fore him. She looked capable of drifting out to sea or re¬ 
treating into the grass from which she seemed to have arisen. 


30 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“Yes.” 

The girl stood motionless with that poised, indefinite atti¬ 
tude that suggested—disappearance. She did not seem to see 
the extended hand. 

“Who told you?” The voice was friendly enough. 

“An old man.” 

“You mean Granddad Ezra?” 

“Yes.” 

At this the girl gave a slight, thin laugh; it was like the tinkle 
of a silver bell. Then she came forward, her hands out¬ 
stretched to meet Austen’s. 

“I believe something has turned up at last,” she said, 
“just when I was losing hope.” 

Austen was prepared for this, somehow, and banked upon 
it for his success with the girl. 

“Let us sit down and talk,” he said. “I have come to see 
you. I bear a message. I want you to trust me, if you can.” 

This was daring, perhaps. The girl’s eyes looked startled 
as she and Austen sat down with the flower-strewn grave 
between them. 

Something subtle held the two—but held them apart. A 
false step might cause trouble, and Verity Leighton was on 
guard. By instinct she was cautious and clear-headed—her 
flights of fancy were but outgrowths of her drab and starved 
life. 

“Why do you come here?” Austen’s glance fell upon the 
rough headboard. Instantly the girl was alert. 

“Because”—she replied, keeping her eyes on Austen’s 
face—“because, can’t you see?—my mother is buried here.” 

Austen caught a note of defiance in the tone. The girl 
meant to defend something sacred. 

“I—I knew your mother.” 

For a full moment this sank into the girl’s consciousness. 
Her face twitched and her eyes fell. It was not a sense of 
shame that moved Verity Leighton at being discovered in a 
falsehood, but the sense of loss in the holy thing this stranger 
was about to wrench from her. Was she not to keep even her 
dead mother? 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


3i 


But Verity was no coward in the face of disaster. If she 
could not bask in the luxury of her imagination, she could 
grip facts fiercely. She could relinquish, but only if she 
were compelled to. 

“Is my mother dead?” she asked, and her wonderful eyes 
'were raised to Austen’s. “Mrs. Thomley said at first that 
my mother had forgot me. I knew that was a lie. Then she 
said that my mother was dead, and I had to have something, 
so I made believe she was buried here.” 

Austen looked away. He who a week before had recog¬ 
nized the futility of burying what was not really dead, shrank 
from exposing to this child the ghastly truth. 

“Your mother sent me to you!” he said gently; and deter¬ 
mined again to inter, for the present, what he dared not re¬ 
veal. 

“Then she is dead!” 

“Yes.” Austen had chosen his course. Later, he tempo¬ 
rized, when he had won the girl’s confidence and faith, when 
the statement would be a fact, he would tell all, or as much as 
he must. 

“You were my mother’s friend?” 

“Yes.” This more assuredly as if in the hope of it justi¬ 
fying everything else when the truth must be faced. 

“Was—was she far from here when she died?” 

“Yes.” 

“Was it long ago?” 

“Not very long ago. She was ill for a longtime.” The 
story grew as need urged. 

“Oh!” The word was a mere sob. “That was why she— 
she could not come.” At this the girl crept across the 
flattened grave and knelt by Austen. “But why did she not 
write? Tell me about my mother—tell me the message.” 

It was too late now to retrace any step. Austen, for a 
time, must meet this girl upon a foundation of his own 
erecting. Even while he hesitated, he was upheld by a belief 
that she would understand by and by, and pardon the 
necessity of the present. 

“Your mother’s only thought was of you.” Austen looked 


32 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


over the young head at his knee as if to gain inspiration. 
“Above all else she wanted you to be happy; to remember 
her as you knew her. She sent for me, at the last. She 
trusted me with her affairs—I am a lawyer. I hope that 
you will learn to have confidence in me, too, though I realize 
that my sudden appearance must seem strange to you. It 
was better for me to come than to write or send an¬ 
other.” 

Austen was surprised at his own words. He was speaking 
to the child as if she were a woman, but her reply made him 
feel that he was on the right course. 

“Yes; that was better,” she said, slowly. “Mrs. Thomley 
might have whisked me away.” Austen was soon to become 
familiar with Verity’s quaint speech—it was coloured by old 
Ezra’s companionship and literature. 

“Why didn’t you come before? You might have been too 
late, for Mrs. Thomley is going to send me away. I’m al¬ 
ways threatened with being sent away. It’s like having my 
roots torn up. Sometimes I feel as if a monster was pulling 
me away from anything I clutch. I’ve stayed here longer 
than I’ve ever stayed anywhere else.” 

The girl began to cry forlornly, and the sight moved Austen 
to pity. 

“I only knew a short time ago,” he explained. “I came as 
soon as I could.” 

Then, like the shadow of a passing cloud, Verity’s tear-wet 
face darkened. 

“Are—are you the same one that Mrs. Thomley was going 
to send me to? She said it was a man.” 

“No. Iam—your friend.” This seemed to re-instate the 
child’s growing confidence. 

“I am going to remain until Mrs. Thomley returns, and then 
you may w T ant to go with me. If you do”—Austen smiled— 
“I promise that your roots will be safeguarded in the future. 
And now, will you tell me when it was that you last saw your 
mother?” 

“It was years ago. I was so little, but I see her quite 
plainly when I try.” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


33 


“Try now, Verity. It will help me.” 

And then, as if recalling the dream of her lonely hours, the 
girl depicted the garden, the summerhouse, and the rocking 
chair big enough for two. 

“For she was little—a very little mother/’ 

“Yes, she was little,” mused Austen. 

“But strong,” Verity added. 

“Yes—strangely strong for any one so small.” Austen’s; 
mouth grew stern. 

“And she was so pretty.” Verity was taking no heed of 
the interruptions. “Her hair was in little curls that danced. 
Her eyes danced, and when she talked her words danced on 
little laughs. She called me Ducky-darling and I called her 
Momsey.” 

A dry, hard sob shook the pathetic voice. Then with a quick 
change: 

“Oh! It was awful, the waiting in the garden after the 
last time she came. I seemed to stop right there—everything 
waited. And then I was sent away where there was no gar¬ 
den, but something in me kept waiting. I must tell you 
everything. I grew bad when my mother did not come. I 
didn’t care. If I could get something by lying, I lied; I 
even stole when I was hungry or wanted something very 
much, and yet”—Austen was watching the tragic young 
face with compassion—“and yet the badness did not get ’way 
down deep where the memory of my mother was. Can you 
understand ?” 

“Yes, my child.” 

“And when I came to Mrs. Thomley I was frightened,, 
frightened by the people in the house. They were terrible,, 
and I was going to try to die—but I found Granddad Ezra. 
He let me talk to him—talk as I’m talking to you; it let. 
things out—the bad, frightening things—and then I could 
think of my mother again. Granddad Ezra knows God—not 
just knows about Him. There is a difference, and he told 
me that the thought about my mother, and the feeling that 
something would happen, were God in me, and that I must 
keep them alive by being good. As good as I could; but I’m 


34 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


not very good. Granddad Ezra gave me clothes; he taught 
me to read—he saved me.” 

Austen did not speak. He was absorbing the girl near 
him; appropriating her in a marvellous manner. She was 
giving herself to him without reserve; a word of his might 
turn her from him. 

“If I have to go away,” Verity said slowly, “and I suppose 
I must for no money comes now—I believe I would like to 
go with you. It might not be so bad as some places.” 

“Thank you, Verity.” 

“But who are you? What shall I call you? Where are 
you going to take me—and when ?” 

The helplessness of the girl, her pitiful attempt to under¬ 
stand, moved Austen deeply. 

“All this must seem strange to you,” he said, “and yet by 
and by you will realize that it is not as strange as it seems. 
I have known your mother, your people, for years, but I 
had lost sight of them until a short time ago. I have all 
authority to—what shall I say?—well, care for you. I will 
do my best. If you will be patient I promise to explain every¬ 
thing to you when the time comes.” 

So little seemed to satisfy the girl. Austen saw trust in 
him growing in her eyes. 

“ I wish,” he said, quizzically, “that you’d call me what your 
mother did—Barney. I—I am rather queer about names.” 

“Barney? Just Barney?” A smile touched the lips of 
the girl. “I wonder if I can? It is queer.” 

“Try.” Austen, too, smiled his most friendly smile. “I’m 
rather a queer man, I suppose. Names do not mean much 
to me—just handles, you know.” 

“I’ll try.” Verity looked away, then repeated: “Barney. 
Barney. Barney.” Suddenly she turned full upon Austen: 

“Eve got the handle!” she cried. 


CHAPTER IV 


T HAT night Austen lay in God’s Room in Ezra Ta¬ 
ber’s cabin. He did not sleep much but he was at 
peace. He had talked long with Ezra and gained 
much information concerning Verity Leighton’s temperament 
and character; her loose upbringing and the dangers she 
had run. 

“ She’s old and yet mighty young,” Ezra had explained. 
“ All neglected young critters get a mighty keen twist to them 
either for good or evil. Little gal Verity, with an ill wind 
blowing on her, has yet managed to sail safe. I shall miss 
the lass deep and long, sir, but there’ll be joy mixed with 
the pain, for I sense that she’s headed at last for the open 
seas and she’s of the kind that never naturally hugs the shore.” 

“What I must say to you, Taber,” Austen had said during 
the conversation, “will hardly agree with the appreciation 
and gratitude that I feel, but I know that you will under¬ 
stand. For a time I must detach this young girl as com¬ 
pletely as possible from—well, this place and what it 
represents, outside, of course, yourself. She will remember 
you, I feel sure of that. There are grave reasons for doing 
this, or I would not say so.” 

“I feel, sir,” Ezra returned, “that rightfully you are keep¬ 
ing much from me. I sense that you are doing God’s work for 
the lass and I’m not one to meddle with what is His. Little 
gal Verity will never forget—I know the lass; and should a 
time come when she needs me again the Lord will send her to 
me. 

“You are a big man, Taber.” Austen smiled. 

“Big enough for the job I was sent to do, I trust, sir. 
You are the lass’s friend; you come to take her to her own. 
I wish you Godspeed!” 


35 


36 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“I am her friend, Taber.” 

Ezra accepted this without question. 

“I gather,” Ezra wandered on, ‘That the little lass is to 
be taken where life comes easy?” 

“She is to be given her chance. Life is never any too easy; 
we know that; but there is preparation and opportunity for 
living it understandingly, and Verity shall have every chance.” 

Taber nodded. 

“I’ll miss the lass!” he repeated, the human longing 
•overcoming him. “She’s been like a gift of God to me— 
something to help along while I waited to drift out!” 

“She will always know that, Taber, and I will see that you 
are kept in touch with her. I have much to thank you for. 
You have helped her when she most needed it.” 

The following day Mrs. Thomley returned and Austen had 
his interview with her. All the peril of Verity’s life seemed 
emphasized when Anna Thomley sat before him. 

They were in the shoddy living room of the yellow house. 
Verity was safe with Ezra Taber—Austen had demanded that 
—and now he looked at the woman across the table without 
fear of being overheard. Her painted and powdered face was 
hard and expressionless; her clothing was cheap and gaudy— 
he noticed that her hands were lined and soiled, the nails 
broken and black. She listened to what Austen said without 
interruption, and when he finished and leaned back she re¬ 
marked calmly: 

“Of course you don’t expect me to take what you’ve said 
without proof?” 

“I ask you to take it with recompense.” 

This was risking much, but Austen believed he knew his 
woman. 

“If the mother is not dead—if she turns up-” 

Anna Thomley was on guard—not for the child; Austen 
saw that and realized the necessity of firmness. He believed 
she knew perfectly where Mary Carlin was. 

“You may send the mother to me!” 

This was very disarming, and the glance of Austen’s eye was 
disconcerting. He did not intend to argue. 



SMOTHERED FIRES 


37 


“But how can I be sure where you will be?” 

“You must take some chances, but I will leave my ad¬ 
dress—my business address—with you. You can easily 
verify it if you consider it necessary; but I should advise 
you to forget a good deal when you accept my terms. This 
is not a threat—it is merely legal advice. This all seems high¬ 
handed and questionable, but it is less so, probably, than 
what might have occurred to the child had I not come.” 

Anna Thomley winced. 

“I’ve had no money, not a cent, nor an explanation, for 
over two years,” she muttered. 

“That is the basis upon which we will transact our busi¬ 
ness.” Austen drew nearer the table and took his check book 
from his pocket. “And by the way, I am showing great 
faith in your understanding of our future relations by giving 
you a check,” he added. 

The woman dropped her eyes. 

“For board and clothing-” Austen began to figure. 

“And care!” Anna Thomley broke in. 

“Care, of course!” 

Austen jotted down items and figures, then passed the slip 
of paper to the woman, who glanced at it; looked up at 
Austen; estimated her man and remarked: 

“Very well. I agree.” 

“Thank you. You simplify matters greatly by your in¬ 
telligent acceptance.” Austen made out the check. He 
arose. “And now, good-bye.” 

“Em not to see Verity?” 

“No.” 

“Her clothes-” 

Austen waved the suggestion aside and passed from the 
little yellow house. 

Anna Thomley watched him until a turn in the road hid him. 
She clutched the crisp check in her hand and her eyes glit¬ 
tered. The name was familiar to her—she had followed the 
Carlin case from a safe distance. 

“All right,” she muttered. “You’ve lied like a gentleman, 
Barnard Austen, and taken a gambler’s chance. Why in 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


38 

God’s name you are shielding the child I don’t know, but 
you have your reasons, all right. The mother is not yet 
dead! Why have you bought her off? For whom?” Then 
Anna Thomley laughed. “For the Delmars, I reckon. 
But I’ll know in good time. I’ll know, and then we’ll have 
another seance, Mr. Barnard Austen.” 

Anna Thomley’s acquaintance with the mother of Verity 
was of long standing but intermittent, and always it had been 
confused by change of names—a trick which complicated 
every phase and period of the woman’s life. As Mary 
Leighton, Verity’s mother had lived her years with Delmar, 
and consequently Mary Carlin’s connection with the tragedy 
of Delmar’s death had been a conjecture to Anna Thomley 
until she saw the pictures in the papers. But she held her¬ 
self aloof. 

She had always believed that Verity was Delmar’s child; 
she concluded that Mary Leighton’s downfall began when 
Delmar cast her off, and now naturally she believed Austen 
to be a representative of the Delmars. 

“Somebody in that bunch,” she reflected, “must have a 
tender conscience, and is ready to look after the child and pay 
hush money. I’ll get in touch with Mary. That’s the big 
idea. There’s no telling what might happen.” 

But there was about Austen and the size of his check that 
subtle something that warned Anna Thomley to move 
cautiously and in the dark. And, as often occurs with natures 
as sluggish and self-centred as hers, she presently lost in¬ 
terest in the affair; took some comfort in the romantic idea 
that she was acting in Verity’s interest and from a devoted 
and self-sacrificing motive. 

She closed her home, went to Philadelphia, and was 
soon submerged, as far as Austen was concerned, by new 
and demanding interests. But she had located Mary 
Carlin. 

The day following his interview with Anna Thomley was a 
trying one for Austen. To his dismay he discovered that in 
the heat of the dramatic severing of old ties and the forging 
of new ones he had not considered the plain, commonplace 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


39 


duties and events that must always, even under the most 
extraordinary circumstances, play the major part. 

With Verity definitely on his hands, with Ezra Taber’s 
faith-demanding eyes upon him, he considered his private 
life and associates with positive awe. 

He knew that he could rely upon Lewis for unquestioned 
devotion, but the curiosity that would naturally follow the 
introduction of a strange young girl in his bachelor life was, 
now that he contemplated it, little less than appalling. 

Verity, windswept and tattered; Verity the appealing figure 
in a sad tragedy, was compelling and captivating; but Verity 
arrayed in her shabby best, excitedly facing the next stage 
of her career, was a staggering reality. 

There was something pathetically ridiculous about the 
girl as she stood before him, her eyes reddened by the tears 
she had shed at her prospective farewell to Ezra; her brave 
smile twisting her lips, and her thin little hands clutching her 
old bag which contained her few treasures. 

Her beauty was blurred; her future less easy to arrange. 

“My God!” thought Austen, and visions of unsuspected 
dangers loomed darkly. 

To introduce her into his home unannounced and arrayed 
as she was would be but to hazard her best interests. By way 

of Lewis- He considered for a hopeful moment Lewis’s 

mother and aunt. They might help him, but a second 
thought drove him away from that possible assistance. 
The Lewis ladies must not be shocked or have suggested to 
them anything more dramatic than must of necessity be 
inevitable. Like most rarefied beings they were capable 
of marvellous flights of fancy—it were best to clip their wings 
rather than rely upon them for protection. He must cling 
to his original story of his client’s demands, but Verity 
menaced it. 

Of course, Austen reflected, clothing could be procured in 
Boston. He could smuggle the girl into some shop—the boat 
made an early landing—and throw himself upon a shop girl’s 
mercy. But Verity, shod and clothed in appropriate gar¬ 
ments, would still, Austen felt, be rather unnerving to an 


40 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


unsuspecting bachelor environment. He would have to 
account for her at the best. 

Paternity is often an acquired virtue, and to be worn 
with dignity and grace should be slowly achieved. What¬ 
ever Austen may have had of unawakened emotions along 
this line had from the beginning been subject to such shocks 
as to destroy it. Only by regarding Verity as a human 
being, one to whom he owed much, from whom he might 
hope in the future for loyalty, could he proceed. Never 
between him and Verity was there to be the bond of father 
and child even when a great and beautiful love held them. 
Their first contact precluded that. 

As she stood before him in Ezra’s cabin arrayed for her 
big adventure, Austen was frankly dismayed. 

Sensitive and fine, Verity detected the change in him at 
once, but instead of shrinking before it, she rose superbly. 
She saw only Austen’s position; the few days she had known 
him had brought her to a reverential aspect of him. He was 
doing a marvellous thing for her dead mother. Of course 
she would be a burden and source of anxiety to him unless— 
and here the girl raised her lovely eyes to Austen—unless she 
could overcome every obstacle and achieve a place for herself 
in his life and heart. She owed to him, she believed, her only 
chance in life—well, she must prove herself. 

From that moment her efforts had been so pathetically 
brave that they shamed when they had not amused Austen. 
She seemed to be shielding him from herself; she had kept out 
of sight, but if he insisted upon her presence, she came cheer¬ 
fully, though shyly. 

“You see, Barney”—and oh! how delicately and sweetly 
she breathed the name which was more often on her lips in 
prayer than in word—“I’ll look a good deal better when I 
have other clothes”—she had anticipated him—“and you 
must let me stay by myself just at first, until I get over be¬ 
ing frightened. I am like that—I have to find a way to 
do things, just showing me doesn’t seem to help much.” 

“But I want you with me, Verity,” Austen insisted; he 
did not mean to let her bravery outdo his! They were pacing 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


41 


the deck of the Boston boat, for the farewells had been said 
and the night was closing in on them protectingly. “I want 
you to get acquainted with me—like me, if you can.” 

The girl gave him her swift, sweet smile. 

“I like you now, Barney. I like you so much that I am 
going to be—be worthy. I like you—madly.” 

“Come, now, little girl, you mustn’t talk like that, you 
know.” 

“But I must, Barney. When I’m alone I take myself by 
the shoulders and look squarely at myself. It’s like holding 
someone else and seeing what’s wrong. When I am all fixed 
up, Barney, then you will want me with you!” She was 
comforting him, poor little soul, while her own lonely self was 
being relegated to limbo. 

In Boston the clothing question was temporarily solved. 
An inspired saleswoman rescued them and turned Verity 
out a dazzling surprise. Austen took heart. Again he 
caught the glimmer of her loveliness and the witch-flash 
that in a child may so easily lead one astray. 

On the train from Boston to New York Austen had an¬ 
other inspiration. Gazing at Verity in the chair next his own, 
he regained some of his first impressions of her. Outwardly 
she was presentable; he recalled what he had told Lewis; 
he must keep to that story, if he could. More and more he 
was determined to shield the young girl and himself from 
Mary Carlin. He was conscious of a certain exhilaration 
as he plotted and planned. 

He would devise some method of associating money with 
Verity. If he were conducting the financial affairs of a 
client’s daughter it would simplify matters and give credence 
to his story. 

Delicately he broached this matter to Verity as the tedious 
journey progressed. 

“You will be quite independent, in a modest way, child,” 
he explained slowly. “I am going to do the best that I can 
for you.” 

“I—I do not want to be independent,” faltered Verity, 
to whom money meant little and human support much. 


42 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“I hope you’ll like me well enough to—to keep me. But of 
course, if I have money of my own, it would help, if you didn’t 
want me.” 

Already the little storm-tossed creature was gripping the 
nearest spar, thankful that it seemed so seaworthy. 

“Of course,” Austen hastened to explain, “I only want you 
to feel from the beginning that I am carrying out your 
mother’s wishes as regards what she left for you. As she 
trusted me, I hope you will, and perhaps you may grow to 
care for me. I’m rather a lonely man.” 

Then suddenly Verity broke in: 

“If there was money, why didn’t my mother send Mrs. 
Thomley some?” 

The keenness of these questions daunted Austen. He 
turned his eyes toward the outer gloom, through which the 
long, brilliantly lighted train was sweeping like a comet’s 
tail. Then he leaned close to Verity and in a low tone said: 

“I am going to ask my first great thing of you, Verity 
Leighton. I wonder if you will be able to grant it?” 

How natural it was to attempt reasoning with the girl. 
Austen even then was conscious of the mental attitude be¬ 
tween them. 

“I’ll try, Barney.” 

“You are entering a new phase of your life, my dear, and 
much, much depends upon your confidence in me and upon 
yourself. There are reasons why it is best that you should 
not know any more about your past than you now know; 
reasons why much of what you know should be forgot. All 
this may sound strange to you; it is most unusual. When 
you are older I intend to take you into my confidence; in 
the meantime I desire above all else to protect you, make you 
happy, and prepare you for a useful future. Few young 
girls have to meet life as you will, Verity, but this I can assure 
you: you have no need for shame or unhappiness. Whatever 
of misfortune has come to you, I am capable of removing, in 
time. Will you help me?” 

“Yes, I will help you.” The rattling train drowned the 
slow, even words. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


43 


“As you remember your mother, Verity, continue to re¬ 
member her. I wish it were possible for you to forget the 
years when she was kept away from you. At least do not 
let them hamper you.” 

“My—my father—did you know him?” 

The question that had never been asked but once before 
broke from Verity’s lips. 

She had asked Anna Thomley once about her father. 
She had never forgot the cruel reply. 

“Less said about him, the better.” And then the 
laugh that had killed something in Verity, young as she 
was. 

“Yes,” Austen was answering. “I knew your father.” 

“Was he bad?” 

“No!” 

A deep sob-like sigh reached Austen above the roar of the 
train. 

“Is he dead?” 

Then Austen dared much. 

“When we find your father, Verity, everything will be 
made plain.” 

Suddenly the girl reached over and laid her hand on Aus¬ 
ten’s arm. 

“I begin to understand.” Her eyes were like fire; her 
breath came in little gasps. “I read a story something like 
it once, but I did not believe anything real was ever like it. 
I’ll never ask another question, Barney. I’ll just fit into 
the story as it goes along.” 

With a touch of impatience Austen said: 

“You must not let your fancy run away with you, my 
dear. On the other hand, you cannot too early learn to keep 
your own affairs from prying eyes. I have told you what I 
have for your own protection and comfort.” 

Instantaneously, Verity caught the change in tone and 
manner and she withdrew her hand while the colour rose to 
her face. 

Watching her, Austen realized the sensitiveness of the girl 
even while he again admired her bravery and control. 


44 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


When he reached New York he went to a quiet hotel on a 
side street and telephoned to Sheila O’Neil. 

He wondered why he had not thought of Sheila before as a 
counsellor and aide—Sheila the cheerful and reticent; who 
“kept to her hours” on business principles. 

While they awaited the coming of Sheila, Verity astonished 
Austen by another burst of mortifying understanding. 

“Barney,” she said, and her queer little smile was sympa¬ 
thetic, “we seem to have run away, and now that we are here 
we don’t know what to do.” 

“I know perfectly, Verity, and if you will work with 
me-” 

“I will, Barney!” 

“And, my dear child, you must not trip over yourself in 
your determination to meet my wishes. After all, you are a 
person, you know, and must have wishes of your own. I do 
not want to eat you alive!” 

They laughed without reserve. By that laugh they had 
won their first common ground. 

“Oh! When I am the person I’m going to be, Barney, 
you’ll find me quite a handful, but you see I’m just odds and 
ends now; when I’m put together like a puzzle, why-” 

Austen was regarding her with interest. 

“You’ll still be a puzzle,” he said. Then: “How old are 
you, Verity?” 

The girl flushed. 

“I am not sure, Barney. That’s awful, but no one ever 
told me—no birthday parties, candles, or things like that. 
How old do I look, Barney?” 

“That’s it. You look, the body and face of you, very 
young, child, not more than ten or twelve; but your eyes, your 
mind-” 

“Barney, I can think back more than ten years. I am 
lost in the years before that.” 

“Well, Verity, let’s drop the age question. We’ll settle 
that by and by. For the present, I want you to stay here.” 

“Alone, Barney?” The wide eyes grew dark. 

“No, and only for a week or so at the most. I have sent 



SMOTHERED FIRES 


45 


for a young woman whom I have known for some time. 
She will take you about, buy a trunkful of clothes for you, 
and well, train you a bit. You see I have lived alone, no 
women in my home, but I want to prepare a place for you and 
I want this Sheila O’Neil to prepare you for the place, and 
then we’ll set up housekeeping together—you and I.” 

“Yes, Barney.” 

“You don’t mind, Verity?” Austen looked anxious. 

“Oh! I mind, yes. But I’m going to do it—the prepar¬ 
ing, you know; and I like the name of Sheila O’Neil.” 

“And, Verity, because people are curious there is no reason 
for your gratifying their curiosity.” 

“I understand, Barney.” 

But more and more was Verity becoming involved in 
misunderstandings. Gradually it was dawning upon her 
that Austen knew very little of her past or her mother; more 
and more she was conscious of becoming part of a confused 
condition, but with sagacity hardly to be looked for she met 
the situation quietly, unquestioningly. She made no demurs 
nor seemed longer to doubt. 

“I’m in for it,” she thought when she was alone. She 
recalled a time when she and old Ezra, out alone in a fierce 
storm on the ocean, faced the danger grimly. 

“All’s being done as can be done, Verity,” the old man 
had explained. “We’re using all the knowledge we have, it’s 
up to Him as holds the winds in His hands now, so don’t 
fash and fume. This may be a testing.” 

“All right!” Verity was pacing her small bed-chamber, 
awaiting Sheila. “All right! The God in me that Granddad 
Ezra talked about has a chance now to—to shoot up!” 

The interview with Sheila O’Neil did more to reduce condi¬ 
tions to normal than anything Austen could have expected. 

She accepted what Austen told her with simple faith. An 
employer’s reputation is often more justly established among 
his employees than anywhere else. Sheila listened and 
nodded. To herself she was saying: 

“Another kind turn he’s making! The ways of him, to 
be sure!” 


4 6 SMOTHERED FIRES 

Sheila was looking back to a time when the “ways” of 
Austen had solved the troubles of her sister’s family; rescued 
the brother-in-law from the clutches of the law and seen the 
thing through. 

“I want you to see that Miss Verity has proper clothing. 
Give her a good time, Sheila; take taxis everywhere. The 
roar of the city frightens her almost to death. Get her used 
to it and then bring her home. If you get on together I would 
like to engage you as a—well, as a kind of companion- 
housekeeper if there is such a thing, and perhaps you can 
secure a cook, for I’m going to set up a regular home.” 

Sheila O’Neil, sitting stiffly on her chair, swallowed all 
that she heard and relegated digestion to the future. 

When she saw Verity the kindly heart of her was touched 
and her Celtic imagination fired. 

She undertook the task of clothing Verity with romantic 
enthusiasm. In dramatic “asides” she conveyed the idea 
that Verity was a younger sister just “brought over”; she 
wanted to give the pretty lass the best. 

And Sheila knew the “best” in a way that sales people 
respected. 

“These prying shop folks,” Sheila confided to Verity, 
“they gape so wide that it takes a lot to fill ’em. I’m passing 
you off to them as a kind of Cinderella—do you know about 
her?” 

Verity nodded. 

“Well, then, ye look the part, and there ain’t going to be 
any twelve o’clock alarm set for you, either.” 

As to taxis, Sheila was lavish—she was having a glorified 
time herself, and soon won Verity entirely. 

And then at a week’s end Sheila, flushed with pride of 
achievement, presented Verity to Austen. 

He was sitting in his library one late afternoon when a 
slight noise caused him to raise his eyes. In the doorway 
leading to the hall stood—Verity. 

“Here I am, Barney! Will I do?” 

“Will you do?” Austen leaned forward in his chair. 
“Why, my dear, what has happened to you?” 



SMOTHERED FIRES 


47 


Eagerly he was noting the pretty shining hair, the plain, 
becoming gown, the slim ankles and shapely feet. 

“I—I do not know, Barney, what has happened. I’m 
afraid that I am going to wake up and find it all a dream/’ 

“This is no dream, Verity.” Austen spoke feelingly. 

“I wish it were!” The lovely eyes widened. “I could 
manage it then. All this seems too big for me; too big.” 

Verity was looking about the stately, beautiful room. 

“You’re not going to fail me, Verity?” The laughing 
appeal reached its goal. 

“No. I’m going to play fair.” 

And all her courage was needed in the readjustment. With 
the excitement of change and mystery subsiding; with Austen 
away all day and every day and Sheila engrossed in estab¬ 
lishing regular housekeeping, Verity wandered through the 
silent rooms like a shadowy little spirit seeking, it knew not 
what, among strange and awesome scenes. 

“I suppose there is something for me,” she mused, “some¬ 
thing I can make my own,” and for that she was seeking. 

She read and looked from the windows. Life from that 
angle and height became more and more dreamlike. She 
walked with Sheila in parks and through crowded streets— 
a shade among unreal creatures. 

“It’s like being in a glass house,” she confided to Sheila. 
“I can see, but I do not seem to hear, and I cannot touch 
things.” 

“You’ll smash through,” Sheila comforted. “You’re 
getting your aim ready or I miss my guess.” 

Sheila could always make Verity laugh. And to the few 
who might be interested Sheila had explained Verity so simply 
that she soon ceased to arouse any interest. 

When Austen appeared at the day’s end, Verity’s greeting 
was little less than a physical collapse. It irritated him. 
He had meant to preserve his independence, but this seemed to 
be impossible. If he remained away and telephoned, his 
thoughts clung to the memory of the tone of Verity’s voice 
as she said: “All right, Barney.” It so tragically proclaimed 
that everything was all wrong with the poor child’s world. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


48 

“Something must be done!” he began to realize. “So far 
I seem to have torn her up by the roots and have failed to re¬ 
plant her.” 

So he invited Lewis to the house and, by so doing, opened 
the door of Verity's cage. 


CHAPTER V 


I EWIS, more than any other of Austen’s small circle, was 
regarded intimately; more like a younger brother 
whose affection could be depended upon, whose hon¬ 
est judgment might be accepted or repudiated without 
resentment. 

He appeared with the gratitude of a pardoned exile. Verity 
was being carefully groomed by Sheila when he strode into 
Austen’s presence, having admitted himself by his private key. 

“Well!” he said, smiling broadly and flinging himself in 
a chair. “I thought it was about time. How does it feel, 
Barney, the heavy paternal act? You look fit as a fiddle.” 

Austen caught the contagion of Lewis’s mood but the words 
had startled him. 

“It’s absorbing,” he said. “You see, she has been rather 
neglected—brought up in an out-of-the-way place—and she 
takes time. Don’t expect too much.” 

“Got her broken in yet?” 

“Well, she doesn’t shy at strangers any more. At first 
she did.” 

Then suddenly Lewis turned grave eyes upon Austen and 
said unexpectedly: 

“Mary Carlin is in hospital. I’ve managed fairly well. 
She’s sick, right enough, but she’ll be retained as assistant in 
the infirmary if she recovers. I thought you’d like to know.” 

A grayness rose to Austen’s face, but Lewis was not looking 
at him. Then quietly Austen spoke, adding a bit more to 
what he had already confided. It was his way to go slow: 

“Ted, that woman had good cause, if such a thing is pos¬ 
sible, for killing Delmar. He was a scoundrel; the world’s 
better off with him out of it; but his wife and children cannot 
be expected to believe that.” 


49 


50 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“Ah!” thought Lewis. “There was something between 
Delmar and Mary Carlin! I wish to the Lord Harry that 
I could get her story.” Aloud he said: 

“Sometimes I believe that all murder, unless it’s done by 
some crazy creature, is justifiable.” 

“Oh! Come, Ted, don’t introduce red in this room, it 
would jar with the colour scheme.” Austen struggled to 
cast off his anxious mood, but he continued quietly: 

“The death of Mary Carlin must be devoutly hoped for. 
More perhaps for her own sake than another’s.” 

“It’s rotten to know that that is true of any one.” Lewis 
spoke feelingly. 

After another pause Austen went on: 

“I’m going to leave this matter in your hands, Lewis, but 
in order that you may not be hampered I am arranging to 
have an account opened in your name at the First National. 
Draw upon it as you think best for the woman’s advantage.” 

“That’s an elastic order, Barney.” 

“I know what I am about, Ted.” 

“Of course, Barney, I appreciate your confidence; and 
I’ll try to deserve it.” 

“I’m sure of that. We need not discuss this case further 
unless something new comes up.” 

“All right.” 

“You see, your first criminal case is taking on importance, 
Ted, and now I must get you interested in this new business 
of mine—this Verity Leighton.” 

At that best of all moments Verity presented herself at 
the door. Lewis regarded the apparition with solemn eyes. 

What he had expected to find he could not have told—but 
he had not expected this! He was confused, and he looked 
helplessly young and awkward. 

Verity contemplated Lewis with awakened interest. From 
the first glance he appealed, to her as a life-line might have 
had she been sinking in an actual wreck. All that she had 
hoped for in her changed life; all that she had struggled 
blindly to achieve had been menaced by the stark loneliness 
of her days and Austen’s very evident dismay at her presence. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


5i 


And here was this young, laughing fellow creature flying a 
signal of hope. She responded tragically, and this sudden^ 
friendship was eventually to draw her nearer to Austen. 

It brought her to shore! It was quite another matter to 
live after that; she had made her first contact. 

Lewis early demanded that he be called Ted. Simple 
names seemed to be all that was expected in this new world. 

“It’s all in the family,” he explained. “When you cannot 
call people by their given names, look out for bumps! Tell 
me, Verity Leighton, when you think about me, do you think 
in terms of Lewis or Ted?” 

This after the first week. Verity laughed, really laughed. 
It startled Austen who, behind his evening paper, was listen¬ 
ing. 

“Why, Ted, of course, because Barney-” 

“Leave him out,” Lewis commanded in a side tone; “an¬ 
swer honest.” 

“Well, Ted, then.” 

“Ted, it is. Ted and Verity. You’ve got a ripping name.” 

“It means truth, Barney says.” 

“Something of a job, living up to that name.” 

They were presuming upon Austen’s detachment and grew 
confidential. 

“Yes, an awful job, Ted.” 

Then another laugh. Lewis had stridden in where wiser 
and older people might have hesitated. He presently began 
to regulate the strained relations between Austen and Verity 
which his keen interest detected. At the end of a fortnight 
he was prepared for the next move. 

“There’s one thing about Barney,” he confided, “that you 
have to tackle with gloves on—that’s his independence. He’ll 
do anything for you, but he won’t be driven, and if you get a 
strangle hold upon him there’s the very devil to pay. Excuse 
me, Verity.” 

“I like you to talk like that, but I don’t know what you 
mean.” Even as she spoke Verity began to know. 

“You mustn’t hamper Barney, Verity. He’s annexed you, 
but you’re not a belonging yet. See?” 


52 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“Yes. I’ve never really belonged anywhere, Ted. I mean” 
—hastily—“that IVe always been sort of a responsibility. 
I suppose IVe been trying too hard to be a belonging.” 

“That’s it, Verity. Now you’re going to belong like all 
creation. You’re that kind. But the more you try, the 
more you’re getting in your own way. It’s the very mischief 
for Barney to feel you tugging at him when he has other 
things on hand. See?” 

“Yes. I begin to see and I’m not going to tug. You 
help, Ted. I was so lonely.” 

“Good! Now let us make a covenant. Tug me, if you 
must tug, but don’t pull at Barney. We’ll have him toddling 
after us yet, take my word for it.” 

And from that hour Austen was conscious of a relaxed 
hold upon him. 

In due time the Lewis ladies were invited to meet Verity 
and inspect Austen’s new regime. 

Now the Lewis ladies were ladies; not women! Like their 
good but antiquated clothes, their manners and morals were 
indicative of that station to which an intelligent and Epis¬ 
copalian God had called them. Clothes and morals and 
manners had from their beginnings been selected for the 
wearing quality rather than the beautiful and adaptable. 

“It sounds queer to me!” Mrs. Lewis remarked; “and 
questionable. Such an innovation must have some explana¬ 
tion to justify it.” 

“But my dear sister-in-law,” Miss Jane Lewis whispered, 
“Mr. Austen has always, himself, been unaccounted for. 
He does not seem to need excuse. He came among us with¬ 
out, so far as I’ve been able to discover, any tradition what¬ 
soever; but that is no disgrace. I’ve heard that some 
people do not have traditions; they are new, of course, but 
not necessarily unworthy.” 

“Sister”—Mrs. Lewis sat up very straight—“you don’t 
suppose-” 

“Certainly not!” Miss Jane flushed. 

“But, sister, it was fifteen years ago that Barnard Austen 
entered the firm of our legal advisers and this—young girl— 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


53 


and his aversion to women—and such things do happen. A 
bad penny, you know/’ 

“Theodore thinks this girl is not more than ten.” Miss 
Jane floundered helplessly. 

“What do men know of girls’ ages, sister?” Mrs. Lewis 
set her lips grimly. 

“Well,” Miss Jane broke in, “we must have some faith, 
and since the girl is an established fact, I suppose she must be 
educated.” 

“I’m not so sure of that, sister. Education does much 
damage-” 

Mrs. Lewis rarely finished her sentences. It was in her 
pauses that much evil had birth. 

She discarded, however, Austen’s confidence concerning 
Verity and replaced it by an interpretation of her own which 
she defended stubbornly. 

“Such men as Austen do not espouse the cause of young 
girls for sentiment,” she sniffed. “Client indeed!” 

Jane flushed and moved uneasily. 

“I cannot see why you should want to create a situation, 
sister-in-law,” she said. 

“Create!” Mrs. Lewis glared. “I do not create evil, 
Jane, neither do I condone it. We are asked to dine at Judge 
Austen’s. We are asked to recommend a governess for what ? 
For what?” 

“For a young girl, sister-in-law.” 

“Exactly! And what young girl, Jane?” 

“Why, the ward of Judge Austen. You know, sister-in- 
law, wards used to be very fashionable.” 

“In the days of chaperons, yes, Jane. But with the pass¬ 
ing of the one the other has become extinct.” 

Another sniff and a pause. 

Something of this conversation became known to Lewis 
and he reacted to it violently. 

“Well, of all the damned rot!” he exclaimed. “Making 
messy strings of lies out of a business affair.” Then he 
rose to imaginary flights. 



54 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“Perhaps you’d like to have Mr. Austen show you all the 
legal data of this case? Well, he jolly well won’t do it. But 
I happen to have the facts and I do not propose to have my 
mother and my aunt make themselves ridiculous by handing 
out cheap melodramatic stuff about a perfectly commonplace 
transaction. I declare there are times when you make me 
sneeze.” 

“My son, my son!” 

Mrs. Lewis trembled with pride when her son asserted his 
masculine superiority, but she hid her emotion under a guise 
of despair. She always uttered the words “my son, my son” 
as a Biblical character might have, and the words marked 
her subjugation by, not her love for, her son. 

She and Miss Jane dined with Austen, and Mrs. Lewis 
stared stonily at Verity, while Miss Jane melted. 

' In the end they advised Austen to engage a certain 
Miss Truett as governess for his ward. The advice was ac¬ 
cepted. 

“Schools are hotbeds of immorality,” Mrs. Lewis confided. 
“Spare her that ordeal.” 

And to Miss Jane the good lady later added: 

“I may be all wrong, Jane. If I am, I shall be glad to 
know it, and if anybody can get at the truth of this matter, 
Eleanor Truett can.” 

But Miss Truett, apparently, got nowhere in the matter, 
outside her legitimate and professional lines. She arrived at 
the Austen apartment at nine, instructed Verity until twelve, 
and then had lunch with her, Sheila hovering throughout the 
meal. From one to four Miss Truett conducted her charge 
to carefully selected art exhibitions and concerts. 

Verity absorbed what was offered in the way of education 
as a desperate person might consume a disagreeable portion of 
food, in order to get it over with. 

The pictures she enjoyed and often the music affected her 
deeply. It was after a concert that she once suggested to 
Miss Truett that she should have singing lessons. 

“For,” she explained, “I think I will either be a great 
singer or dancer some day.” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 55 

This, when repeated to the Lewis ladies, was stored away, 
as evidence, among suspicions and doubts. 

“We’ll have the truth some day, Jane. Was there ever a 
moral actress?” 

“Oh, I hope so, sister-in-law,” Miss Jane quivered. 

Miss Truett left her duties at four unless entertainment 
detained her, and then Verity, somewhat flattered and 
chastened, emerged and gradually revived. By the time 
Austen returned, often accompanied by Lewis, she was in a 
state of hilarity that should have aroused alarm. 

“You’re growing up!” Lewis once remarked to Verity as 
she sat across the table from him at dinner. 

This was apropos of nothing and Austen glanced in Verity’s 
direction. 

“What have you done to your hair?” he asked inanely. 

“Pulled it down over my ears.” Verity beamed radiantly. 
“Ears seem to be out of fashion.” 

“You do look as if you were growing up,” Austen said, 
looking puzzled. 

“Funny,” he said, turning to Lewis, “just when you think 
you’ve got a nice little doll to play with, you find it’s a 
meat baby. What do old bachelors do with meat babies, 
Ted? Ask your mother and your aunt.” 

“Don’t, please don’t, Ted.” Verity clapped her hands 
excitedly. “They might send something worse than Miss 
Truett.” 

“Verity!” Austen tried to look stern. “What’s the mat¬ 
ter with Miss'Truett?” 

“Nothing, Barney, nothing that she can help. Someone 
poured education in her and she tips over and pours it in me 
—but you see it doesn’t get me anywhere.” 

Lewis laughed, but Austen seemed to have lost his appetite. 

“Get you anywhere?” he repeated. “Where do you want 
to get?” 

Verity’s eyes looked dreamy. She was thinking of old 
Ezra and harbours where people would be. She never spoke 
of Ezra. She had accepted his loss as a necessary adjunct 
to her duty to Austen. 


56 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“I don’t know, Barney, that’s just it. I get thinking why 
things are, and there does not seem to be any answer. We’re 
all playing around, like those children Sheila and I see in 
the Parks. I wish I did know! I’m tired of guessing.” t 

“Guessing what, Verity?” 

The three at the table looked suddenly serious as they 
bent forward. 

“Things. Things I want to know but do not know how to 
ask about. Just why, why, why, Barney? I’m different, 
you see, from other girls. Why? Oh!” Verity got up and 
tossed her arms wide. “I want to feel my feet on something 
solid.” 

“What are they on now?” Lewis asked with grave in¬ 
terest. 

“I’m only flapping about now, Ted.” 

“Bunk!” Lewis struck a match sharply and set fire to the 
end of a cigarette. He did not merely light the weed, he made 
a conflagration of it. 

“Let’s go to a movie,” he added. 

Sheila O’Neil, passing from the room, paused at the door 
and looked at the group. Then she shut her lips close. 


CHAPTER VI 


A USTEN, after Verity’s entrance into his life, seemed 
to pass from one experience to another without any 
L vital connecting link. 

Only his business life seemed static and familiar. Once 
he entered his offices or the court room, he was himself, the 
hard-won personality that had been gained by much per¬ 
severance and which had withstood the shocks dealt it until 
the Carlin case. 

But apart from that everything was in a volatile condition. 
His quiet rooms held the echo, if not the actual sounds, of 
laughter and banter. He felt younger and, at times, older 
than he had felt for years; more as if he were playing a part. 

The brightness of his home was set against the grim back¬ 
ground where dwelt Mary Carlin and what she represented. 
He was conscious, constantly, of warding something off, while 
he played his part. There was always an ache under his 
laugh. He was beginning to feel; to resent and send forth 
human appeal. 

With his acceptance of Verity he emerged from the emo¬ 
tional phases relating to her and she became, in a sense, a 
vital and potent factor in his life. He had at first resented her, 
repulsed her mentally, then became fascinated by her. Her 
beauty and charm, her vivid personality and adaptability, 
aroused his pride and admiration. In his relief, he believed 
he was beginning to feel love for the girl, but it was at the 
best only an earnest desire for her happiness. This brought 
with it renewed alarm, for her happiness must be guarded, 
must depend upon his interpretation. 

No longer did he contemplate taking her, at present, into 
his confidence. He withdrew into his secret place, but he 
could not bar the girl out. 


57 


58 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“Eve paid the price!” he groaned. So he had —his price. 

“Eve foregone love and happiness. I do not intend to let 
her pay.” This seemed, in a sense, to justify him. 

The helplessness of the girl cried out for his protection. 
There were moments when he recalled old Ezra’s words about 
taking Verity to her own. Was he giving her her own? 
Was he preparing her even for what she might some day have 
to face? 

“Verity is forgetting,” he tried to make himself believe; 
but in his best moments he knew that she was not. So, for 
a time, he built a high wall about the girl and himself and 
went his strenuous way doggedly. 

It was that talk at the dinner table that first set him think¬ 
ing straight. Lewis took Verity to the theatre and Austen sat 
„ alone and thought. In a clear-visioned way he took account 
of stock. 

He had detached Verity from the past. He was not en¬ 
tirely comfortable about Ezra Taber. He had letters oc¬ 
casionally from the old man: dignified, quaint epistles in 
answer to his carefully typewritten ones. 

He knew that Anna Thomley had gone away. That the 
yellow house was boarded up and deserted. The items 
cheered Austen; seemed added safeguards. 

“I wander up there, now and then,” so Ezra’s letter ran, 
“and peep through a knothole. A haunted place, sir, is the 
yellow house, but I thank God it ain’t haunted by the little 
gal Verity.” 

Austen had never shared these letters with any one. He 
regarded them purely as data. 

“A place of dreams!” thought he dully. “Nothing real. 
No wonder she wants to get her feet upon the ground. 
But-” 

And then the reverse of the picture was contemplated. 

To tell Verity the truth meant . . . Austen saw the 

lovely, vivacious face before him; saw it blanch and die as 
it faced reality. 

“My God! I cannot,” he muttered. “As long as I can 
keep her free, I must.” He knew that he must, in order to do 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


59 


this, detach her more and more, not only from her past, but 
the narrow present that he had brought her into. Some¬ 
where, somehow she should be prepared by another to face the 
truth, but if he could postpone the inevitable, what might 
not occur? And so his confusion grew. 

He would, he avowed, do his best, but in the meanwhile 
keep silent. He saw no further than that. He had struggled 
through black waters himself by this method. There had 
been lonely, desolate times in his own past when he had 
longed for human sympathy and understanding, but had he 
made a cry then, he might have brought down upon himself 
that which would have destroyed, instead of supporting, the 
little he had won by concentrated effort. 

“There should be a woman in her life,” Austen floundered 
on, beating away every new and perplexing doubt by an effort 
of will. “Not Sheila, nor the Lewis women, but someone 
young, vital, wise enough, and above all tender enough to 
help her as no man can just now.” 

But it was Sheila who, at that moment, tapped on the 
library door and entered. She had never looked more capa¬ 
ble and comely—nor more determined. 
i “Will you sit down, Sheila?” 

Sheila sat down as if the yielding chair was an everlasting 
rock. 

Always Austen feared that something might sever Sheila 
from him, marriage most likely, and he had grown to depend 
upon her to a dangerous extent. 

“It’s about Miss Verity, sir.” 

“Oh!” And Austen relaxed. “Yes, Sheila. Has she been 
kicking the traces ? She’s young and heedless, but surely-” 

“Mr. Austen, she’s the blessedest creature along those 
lines. She doesn’t ever do such things—I wish she would!” 
Sheila became rambling. “I do be hoping, sir, you won’t 
think what I’m saying is out of place, but speak I must.” 

“I hope you will, Sheila, and freely.” 

“Well, sir, Miss Verity shouldn’t be here—though it hurts 
the heart of me to be saying it. There ain’t any men on the 
face of the earth, sir, be they as good and noble as yourself 



6o 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


and Mr. Lewis, that can live along with a pretty thing 
like Miss Verity, sir, without seeing the woman in her and 
tugging at it until it hurts the child of her.” 

Austen gripped the arms of his chair. Was he never to 
have done with this worry? He could think of nothing to 
say. The picturesqueness of Sheila’s speech stilled com¬ 
monplaces. 

“You’re always seeing the woman she’s going to be and 
playing up to it, and Miss Verity, sir, all unbeknown to her¬ 
self, is seeking to meet you, she being that loving and worship¬ 
ping, sir. She reads the most fearsome books. I declare 
when she talks about them, they chill my blood, but as long 
as she does talk to me, things haven’t gone far; but when she 
stops, sir, and goes to brooding, oh! Mr. Austen, can’t you 
see what I mean? Miss Verity should be among young, 
romping, unfeeling things for a time—she ought to be turned 
loose among creatures like herself.” 

“You mean”—Austen was grasping some tangible things 
in the light of Sheila’s illumination—“you mean that Miss 
Verity should be sent to school?” 

“Something like that, sir.” 

“But, Sheila, what’s wrong with Miss Truett?” 

“Nothing, sir, God forgive the idea. There isn’t neither 
right nor wrong about Miss Truett, sir. She’s putty in Miss 
Verity’s hands, sir, because of that. I think—and I hope 
you’ll pardon me—I think, sir, that Mrs. Lewis is not a good 
picker for the likes of Miss Verity.” 

“I see. But, Sheila, what school would you suggest?” 

Sheila seemed to Austen at that moment a very present help 
in a troubled time. The only one holding out possible solution. 

“Now that, sir, is beyond me to say. Maybe it isn’t a 
school that Miss Verity needs—maybe it’s only young things 
to scratch along with.” 

“But, Sheila, my friends—I have no friend to whom I can 
go for assistance along this line. I do not know any children 
—I’ve always been glad that I didn’t. I never considered 
them necessary before.” Austen felt positive relief in open¬ 
ing his mind to Sheila. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


61 


‘‘They have their place, sir, distracting as they are. 
They’re mighty educating to themselves. They have a lingo 
that only themselves understand, and through it they get to 
things that us older folks don’t know the way to.” 

Sheila rose and so did Austen. 

“I will think of this, Sheila,” he said, “and I am deeply 
grateful.” 

Left alone, Austen went over all that Sheila had said; it 
seemed now to be but an echo of his own previous thoughts 
that he had tried to still. She had introduced nothing new, 
she had simply emphasized everything; focussed it. Yes, 
but she had struck a new note. What did she mean by that 
nonsense about tugging at the woman in Verity? The more 
he pondered this the more nervous Austen became. Here 
was definite danger, but from what he could not clearly 
define. 

An hour later Verity and Lewis returned. Austen re¬ 
garded the girl now as if by her appearance she might still 
his doubts and set the shadows flying. She did nothing of 
the sort. 

She was radiant and she looked as if in some miraculous 
fashion she had escaped from the familiar child he had known 
and was revelling in her escape. 

“Barney!” she cried, dancing about the room, “I am 
thrilled. Ted took me to see such a wonderful play. Simply 
wonderful.” She darted across the room and perched on 
Austen’s chair arm. There were moments when Verity 
could overcome the shyness she often felt and be quite simple 
with Austen. 

Lewis, from across the table, regarded her with admiring 
amusement. She was doing him credit, he mused. 

“You see, in books,” Verity rattled on, “you have to do 
your own fixing of the scenes, but to-night there they were 
right before you. All you had to do was to look and know. 
I almost died of joy, didn’t I, Ted?” 

“You nearly broke up the meeting,” Lewis returned. 

“What was the play?” Austen asked. “I thought you 
were going to a movie.” 


62 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


‘“The Dawn’,” Lewis lighted a cigarette. “Silly stuff.” 

“It was not!” Verity darted a fierce glance at him. “It 
was life—a big slice of life. Everyone waking up and seeing 
things— real , not make-believe. Seeing why things happened 
and one woman—oh! but she was a dear—she made up her 
mind that she would dare , not wish she might dare. Barney, 
the woman looked like me, didn’t she, Ted?” 

“She did not!” 

“She did, Barney. Ted’s got a grouch just because I wept 
and laughed—as if I cared what people thought! I am that 
woman, Barney, and when I am older you’ll see! 

“Why, Ted, even you grew terribly still when that woman 
stood out under the stars and said just as if she was talking 
to God: ‘I’m not afraid of life.’ Oh! Barney, that’s what 
„ stirs deep down in my heart—I’m not afraid of life. I adore 
it!” And Verity struck an attitude. 

“You’re a ranting little goose, Verity.” Austen could 
not take his eyes from the vivid, illumined face. “Get to 
bed—and these theatre parties must be cut out.” 

“I tried for a movie,” Lewis explained, “but they were 
jammed.” 

“Off with you, Verity. It’s half-past eleven.” 

“I’mgoing, Barney.” Verity rose, shyness again overcom¬ 
ing her. “But I’m not afraid of life!” 

She went dancing and laughing from the room. 

Left alone, Austen and Lewis leaned back and laughed. 

“Ted, I’m afraid we’ll have to ship the child off to school— 
or somewhere.” 

“She’ll rear at that.” 

“No, she will not rear or revolt—she may do something 
more serious, but she must be held back. She had the wrong 
start. She’s not being prepared for life; she’s being smug¬ 
gled into it. It’s all wrong, Ted, all wrong. I took her from 
bad conditions, God knows. I rescued her and then shut her 
up—that’s what I’ve done, shut her up. You and I have 
played with her, amused her, and found some pleasure in her 
as we might have in a stray dog we’d given shelter and taught 
tricks.” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


63 


Austen suddenly stopped and then asked helplessly: 

“What do they do with girls like Verity, Ted? I cannot 
ask such women as your mother. They don’t know. They 
think along lines of governesses—and that’s part of the 
shut-in method; the harem kindergarten, by gracious!” 

Lewis looked grave. 

“What’s done you up, old man?” he asked curiously, but 
feeling, at the same time, some vivifying truth in it all. “Has 
Verity been up to any mischief? All youngsters do—but 
she seems such a good sport that I never suspected she could 
give an undercut.” 

“No. That’s just it. She’s doing something more serious 
than dealing undercuts. She’s been thinking, Ted; thinking 
things that no mere man can help her to work out, I fear, and 
she’s been giving me things to think of that prove to me how 
unfit I am to tackle this. By Jove! It was Sheila O’Neil 
who opened my eyes, and now I must do something about it.” 

“Well, what are we going to do?” 

The pronoun had a peculiarly soothing effect. 

Austen gave his rare smile. 

“Thanks, Ted, I’m going to tackle this, now that I have 
gripped the situation. You see—” he paused as he always 
did before he took a new step—“there are reasons why, in 
Verity’s case, it is necessary that no further mistakes be made 
with her; none that can be avoided. Her inheritance is not 
such as can be disregarded.” 

Lewis dropped his eyes and waited. Was he to get another 
instalment? 

“Both her parents, in a way, shifted their responsibility 
to others who were not the proper sort to train the child. 
She was left to herself to scramble and snatch and she’s 
gathered rather a varied crop. She’s beginning to sort and 
choose, but sh6 needs help. She comes of good stock, but 
her transplanting was all wrong.” How pitiful it all sounded. 

“I see!” Lewis murmured, and he did not see at all. 

What really happened after the night of the theatre party 
was rational enough. Austen considered schools and cor¬ 
responded with the heads of several that interested him. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


64 

Information flooded in upon him; it became rather exciting 
to eliminate, select, and approve from the mass. 

Lewis naturally was drawn into the business and proved a 
great asset. 

“If it’s got to be done,” he advised, “do it right. 
As I see it, you want to amputate her from us, in a 
sense.” 

“Well, yes; in a way, yes.” 

“It's going to be a major operation, all right, Barney. 
Cutting deep and all the rest.” 

“I suppose so, Ted.” 

“Now if you put her near by she’ll cling—run back too 
often-” 

“That’s right!” With this, Austen swept aside a litter 
of advertisements of schools near New York. 

“She ought to go where, in self-defense, she’ll have to 
make new connections,” Lewis continued. 

“Or not make them,” Austen suggested rather forlornly. 

“Never fear, Barney. She’s like one of those vines bound 
for the light and upper heights. She may get twisted and 
snarled as she climbs, but she’ll grip as she goes and she’ll 
come out all right on the top.” 

“You believe that, Ted?” 

“I know it!” 

“How?” 

“Lord! Barney, I’m not on the witness stand. This is 
inspiration I’m giving you.” 

“Thanks.” 

To a limited extent Verity was consulted as to the future 
plans. At first she was startled; alarmed as she always was 
when confronting change. She grew thinner, paler, smiled 
more, and often nodded at Austen, when he was not voicing 
his thoughts, as though to convey to him that words were 
not necessary between them. 

She did not mean to be any trouble—that became more 
and more evident; she would not make demands—the thought 
hurt Austen, but he could not combat it. As a young girl 
she interested him, amused him, appealed to him, but if 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


65 

Verity suffered under the conviction that she in no sense 
belonged , Austen suffered under the realization that he could 
not make her belong , do what he might. 

To every just claim she made upon him for her protection 
and his own, he responded. But from the closer tie he re¬ 
coiled. He saw in her not only the sweet, unquestioning 
girl whom he was seeking to serve, but the child of the woman 
who had ruined his life; who had shut all doors of escape to 
him and who must for ever remain a menace while she lived— 
the woman who would not die! 

He could not forget Mary Carlin. She was gaining power 
over him. He believed that with Verity removed, he might 
bury himself in work and regain once more the peace he had 
known. 

Eventually a school was selected. Happily it proved to 
be the right one for all concerned, for at its head there was a 
woman capable of directing without controlling; a woman who 
realized that it was wiser to equip the young for hewing their 
own way than to attempt the impossible task of leading them 
over paths which, she frankly admitted, usually ended in a 
blank wall. 

“The future form of transit,” she smilingly confided to 
Austen, “is likely to be wings. Of course there are bound 
to be weak wings, broken wings, mere flapping wings; but if 
the dear things have to grovel in the depths, they may also 
touch the heights. At the worst they can do better than we 
have, I truly believe. I keep them healthy, happy, if I can. 
I let them talk. Usually they do not know what they are 
talking about when they begin, but occasionally one of them 
has a vision and she knows how to pass it on to the others. 
They will take it from one of their own.” 

Austen decided upon this very modern place of learning 
with some misgiving. There was much to commend it, but 
the wing theory caused him hours of thought. 

“She sounded so confoundedly practical,” he mused. 
“That is what disturbs me. It ought not to sound so prac¬ 
tical, that wing stuff.” 

When Lewis heard this he was amused. 


66 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, “the army and navy have 
accepted the idea as practical—why not schools ? ” 

“This is no time for levity, Ted.” 

“That’s true, Barney. But, honest, have the elders of the 
tribe done so well that they should feel competent to direct 
others, who may, you know, have ideas of their own?” 

Verity was from the first enthusiastic about Austen’s 
choice. In letting go, she reached forth, and to be able to 
clutch anything that promised what this school promised did 
much to console her. 

And so Verity was sent away. She went bravely, with up¬ 
lifted head—she comforted Austen and Lewis to the last and 
then wept all night in her berth from that terrifying sense of 
being torn away from what really did not belong to her. 

“Just like a weed,” she sobbed, “when I get where I am 
noticed, I’m pulled up.” 

But she rose on her wave of misery and struck out for her 
next point of vantage, thus proving that her wings were 
sprouting. 

“A most dramatic little creature!” That was the verdict 
of Mrs. Winslow, head of the Winslow School, after she had 
greeted Verity. “She’ll be worth watching—not bear watch¬ 
ing, mark you.” And this proved that Mrs. Winslow was 
capable of caring for winged things. 


CHAPTER VII 


V ERITY came home twice before another vista opened 
in Austen’s life. 

The first time she appeared she rather appalled 
him and Lewis, but Sheila O’Neil, after regarding her for a 
day, gave a chuckling laugh. 

“Don’t be taking her too serious, sir,” she confided to 
Austen. “Can’t you see what a bluff she’s putting up? 
She was never one to give herself away, and she’s learning a 
new language now—so she’s showing off.” 

She managed, however, on that visit, to arouse Austen 
anew to his responsibility and duty. The girl was a perma¬ 
nent factor in his life. In a way he was in league with her to 
preserve what he valued and what she was learning to ap¬ 
preciate. In giving her opportunity to prepare for what life 
offered, he had placed her where life presented a charmed 
aspect. More and more he saw that in her acceptance of 
what he was making possible he was tragically unfitting her 
rather than fitting her for the grim reality that brooded over 
her life and his; for Mary Carlin did not die, and the future 
loomed menacingly. What was to be the outcome at the end 
of Mary Carlin’s sentence ? This became an added torment. 

On Verity’s second appearance in Austen’s house she had 
the effect of a galvanic battery. 

She had, to a certain extent, found herself. She had 
been accepted by her schoolmates; she was popular, brilliant, 
too, in an all-around way. She had developed; was rather 
startlingly lovely in her pale amber and white beauty. 

She had arrived at the stage of progress where every day 
is greeted with joy and released with regret. She sang and 
laughed before breakfast, she was keenly alive all day, and 
was surprised when her attention was called to bedtime. 

67 


68 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


Austen, to his relief, found her stimulating as a human 
being; he mentally fenced with her, laughed at her as he 
might at an equal; was inordinately proud of her appearance. 

“She’s a gilt-edged investment,” he confided to himself 
and appeared in public with her, strutting a bit, if the truth 
were told. 

Lewis, for his part, took Verity gravely; was tremendously 
polite to her; sent her gifts—which she received with supreme 
satisfaction, not noticing, apparently, the change in Lewis’s 
manner. 

In short, Verity on that second visit interfered with busi¬ 
ness and again set in circulation doubts and questionings in 
the Lewis home. 

It seemed, apparently, that there was no phase of life 
‘that Verity had not delved into and solved to her own satis¬ 
faction. She discussed everything frankly with whoever 
would listen. 

Austen gazed fascinated upon her audacity; Lewis flushed, 
his mother bridled, and Sheila O’Neil did not laugh any more. 
But above all else, after Verity had returned to school, Austen 
recalled her tenderness, her frankness. She had lost for ever 
her shyness with him; she held him as a dear equal. 

“Oh! Barney,” she had confided to him on a memorable 
night when he and she, by his fireside, had together watched 
the day break, “I am trying to grow up to you. You are 
wonderful, and some day you will understand how I feel about 
you. I may be able to do you a good turn—how I’d love 
that! I must have made a terrible eruption in your life, dear 
man. I was such a greedy, demanding little beast, I tried to 
choke love out of you, but oh! Barney, I did so want the 
belonging feeling.” 

“ Have you got it now, Verity ? ” Austen asked, feeling some¬ 
how that inevitably he had always given twelve ounces to the 
pound instead of sixteen, while honesty had always been 
his constant intention. 

“Yes; I belong to myself, Barney.” This came simply, 
proudly. Then: “Barney, I wish that you would tell me 
everything; everything. Tell me about my mother; my 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


69 


father. Tell me”—here Verity hesitated, fearing a misun¬ 
derstanding— “just how much money I have—of my own. 
I hate mystery, and I seem to be deluged by it. Hasn’t the 
time come?” 

“Do you want a larger allowance?” Austen started, cling¬ 
ing to the lesser evil. 

“No. I have more than I need. But you see, Barney, 
when it is over—school, I mean—I must take my future in 
my own hands.” 

“Why, Verity? Have I failed so miserably?” 

“No, dear, you have won out.” 

“Meaning?” 

“That you have done your blessed duty—when it must 
have been hard for you. You will see by and by how thor¬ 
oughly I appreciate it. I cannot understand how my people” 
—here the exquisite flush touched the fair, drooping face— 
“could, well, dump me on your doorstep and hide. Why did 
they hide? Why dump me?” 

“My dear girl”—Austen reached out a yearning hand— 
“I must have failed completely if I have permitted you 
so utterly to misconstrue things.” 

“Don’t, Barney, dear.” Verity patted the outstretched 
hand comfortingly. “At least you shall not blame yourself.” 

At that moment Austen longed to take the girl into his con¬ 
fidence; she seemed, for the first time, more truly his than 
ever before. But he hesitated, and with delicate reserve 
Verity changed the subject. She always disarmed one by 
her non-resistance. 

“I see; you are not ready to talk freely to me,” she said 
in a soft, hurt way. 

“Not yet, Verity. Trust me a little longer.” 

But after she went, Austen could not lightly shake off the 
impression she had made. He looked forward to her final 
homecoming with tingling excitement. Where heretofore 
he had dreaded the necessity of acknowledging his respon¬ 
sibility, he now feared that it might escape him. 

What Verity had done was this: she had broken through 
the shield that Austen had built about himself; she had shat- 


70 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


tered the wall, flimsy at best, that he had raised about him 
and her. His affections stirred; life took on a new meaning 
to him—he wanted what was his and he fiercely began to 
fight for it, where once he had resigned himself to forego it. 

At first this took the form of planning for Verity’s future 
in such a way that she could not escape him. 

“We’ll have a home—a real one, cellar, attic, and kitchen” 
—this was amusing. “We’ll go abroad. I’ll take her ab¬ 
solutely into my confidence and she’ll stand by me!” 

This conclusion rather thrilled Austen. To face life with 
something of his own with him! Was he, after all, to know 
this comfort? 

And then Fate took Austen in hand. Softened, vibrating 
to demands he had long since renounced, he drifted back to 
the time when he had dared think that he, like other men, 
could shatter the ties that bound him and begin afresh. 
With old emotions revived, old environment made its de¬ 
mands. He thought, with a sick longing, of the hill country 
where, years before, he had passed his summer vacations. 
He had first gone there after a severe illness, had regained his 
health in a farmhouse where a blessed old soul had mothered 
him. 

Not for years had he dared recall those summers, for they 
held the perilous memory of a desired woman—the woman 
for whom he had gone forth to clear his life of debris. 

“But now,” thought Austen, “that is dead and done for— 
the old hopes. I’m throttled securely.” He groaned as he 
recalled Mary Carlin. “Ties are not easily struck off, but 
there is no reason why I should not take a vacation and look 
up old friends.” 

By such erratic decisions does Fate seize her opportunity 
for weaving surprising romances. 

Austen set about arranging for his absence from town. 
Lewis eyed him keenly. Being Austen’s confidential man 
had its perquisites and drawbacks. 

“Verity used you up?” he asked. 

“No—she’s taken years from my life.” Austen drew a 
deep breath. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


7 i 


“ She’s bowled me over, Barney.” Lewis set his jaw and 
Austen dropped his. “I just thought Fd mention it. It 
will be something for you to chew on.” 

‘‘But, Ted! Good Lord!” 

“Exactly. Just maul the idea, Barney. Have a good 
time, everything will go smoothly here; you couldn’t have 
chosen a better time for beating it.” 

Ten days later Austen stood on the station platform of 
Coverly, Vermont, and looked about him. It was almost 
more of a shock, after the years of his absence, to find every¬ 
thing so unchanged, than it would have been to contemplate 
the reverse. 

Apparently Coverly had not been discovered. It lay 
just as he had last seen it. Even the shabby station, lighted 
by oil lamps, was the same. There stretched the road past 
the triangle of grassy Common with its rickety bandstand, 
its flag pole, and its monument to “Our Brave Dead.” 

There was the straggling tavern, with its twinkling lights 
—how early it always displayed its beacons! 

For a moment Austen contemplated going to the Tavern 
and having a night’s rest before starting on his adventure. 

But a homesick longing for the old house where he used to 
spend his vacations overcame his caution. 

There was a short cut across the meadows, a half mile 
beyond the Tavern—how well he recalled it! It wound by 
a noisy little stream, rambled through an enchanted wood, 
and abruptly joined the highway by the Goodalls’ front door. 

Austen knew that the Goodalls still lived at Lower Farm 
and were well and hearty: he had been sensible enough to 
obtain that information before starting. He could get back 
to the Tavern that night, he reasoned, if, by any chance, 
his old bed-chamber at Lower Farm was unavailable. So, 
clutching his bag he strode on, feeling younger than he had 
in years; more energetic and interested than circumstances 
seemed to justify. 

Life was a strange trickster, he thought, playing upon 
human beings as though they had no choice in the game. 
With everything as it had been, confusing and blinding, here 


72 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


he was walking briskly through the fragrant autumn twilight 
whistling cheerily. He paused to listen to himself, then 
laughed and went on, feeling as if his burdens had fallen from 
him. 

Perhaps it was psychological, for he recalled, just then, 
that in the old days when he had dropped business and left the 
city behind him, he had become a boy among the hills, had 
lived a happier, more normal life—he had simply come back! 
Suggestion spurred him on. His old self had met him, taken 
him in hand. 

To appear unexpectedly before the Goodalls would not be 
the calamity it might be to many, Austen smilingly thought, 
for Nancy Goodall, living her lonely, detached life, was al¬ 
ways, as she declared, prepared for accidents. 

.. “Just so many are due folks,” she had once humorously 
explained. “Some folks get ’em scattered and thinned out, 
but ’pears to me as if I am alias booked for regular freshets, 
but I ain’t going to be taken off-guard.” 

Austen laughed aloud at the recollection. Now that he 
was back among the old scenes, how Nancy and her quaint 
philosophy and sayings rose to strengthen his desire and long¬ 
ing to see her. 

“Beds aired and ready; the larder stocked. Them is safe¬ 
guards against shock,” she always held. 

The brief gloaming had become evening by the time Austen 
reached the meadow path. Other feet than his had kept the 
trail trodden and clear. To the right and left quiet-eyed, 
munching cows regarded him dreamily; overhead the stars 
sprang to life, as if touched by a magic wand; ahead, and 
looming as he knew above Lower Farm and the Five Winds 
House, was Spread Eagle—the “mountain” of the region. 
There is always one peak so designated in any hill country; 
one dome more beloved than all others. Spread Eagle was 
not the highest peak, but from time immemorial it was The 
Peak. Its broad wings were spread like sheltering arms 
over the little town; it brooded protectingly, comfortingly. 
The trail leading up to it, as Austen well remembered, was 
no easy or direct one. It seemed to have “happened” along 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


73 


as roaming feet wandered. It turned off occasionally to 
lead to ravishing views; it ambled by trickling streams, it all 
but lost itself in the group of gorgeous maples known as The 
Pilgrims. Halfway up the slope it came suddenly, trium¬ 
phantly, to The Peak as if to say: “Here you are—after all 
my tricks. ” 

Pressing on in the growing darkness, Austen became 
absorbed by his surroundings and the memories that arose 
brought comfort in their wake. He was no longer tired or 
apprehensive; he sang snatches of song and shifted his bag; 
felt strong and happy—he was literally, bodily and spiritually, 
upon a vacation, and the realization of this gave him joy. 
So it had always been. 

He walked briskly on; came to the little brook—how well 
he remembered just where the stepping stones were!— 
jumped across it, struck into the sugar bush beyond, emerged, 
on the hill-top, entered the old covered bridge, groped his 
way out, and saw before him the gleaming lights of Lower 
Farm. 

The shades at the glistening windows were raised at uni¬ 
form height. There would be a rag rug on the doorstep. 
When the weather was “soft” this was replaced by a rubber 
mat. The brass knocker gleamed cheerily—no doubt about 
that knocker. Austen raised it, let it fall, and stood Wait¬ 
ing- 

Then the door fell back with no grudging hospitality and 
Nancy stood in the warm glow. Her eyes were lighted as 
from a sudden flare behind them. 

“Barney Austen!” she cried. “Barney Austen!” To 
her he would always be what he was when he first came to 
her, sick and needy, years ago. She knew the honours that 
were now his; in secret she had followed his career, had faith¬ 
fully defended his silences and long absence by her ability to 
hold him as she felt she knew him in her heart. 

“My stars! You’ve come back along with all the other 
happenings. I declare to goodness!”—she was leading Aus¬ 
ten into the narrow, upright hall; into the shining dining 
room beyond, upon whose table the evening meal was set— 


74 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“the way things have taken to springing on me! It does 
beat all! Now you hang up your hat and coat and I'll have 
your plate and cup on in a jiffy. My! My! but you do go 
to the heart, same as you always did!” 

Nancy was bustling about. She was one with whom tears 
and laughter lay close, and she chose the latter whenever she 
could. 

In her quick passages from kitchen to dining room she in¬ 
terrupted her ramblings, now and then, to call cheerily: 
“ Pa, come along and see who has happened in. My goodness, 
Barney, how natural it does seem to see you setting there 
by the fire!—Pa, Pa, do hurry. Barney Austen has follered 
up what has already happened!” 

This seemed to reach Jonas Goodall. Austen heard the 
-slow, determined advance of the old man whose obstinate 
nature was always holding back from Nancy’s sunny spon¬ 
taneity. Old Jonas believed that it was strength of character, 
this stubbornness of his. He came into the room as if being 
dragged against his will. He was lean, gray, and stern- 
jawed, but he looked no older than when last Austen had 
seen him. 

“Well,” he muttered, coming to the fireside and holding 
out a claw-like hand, “so here you are at last. What you 
got to say for yourself?” 

“A good deal, if I may stay and say it.” Austen smiled 
at Nancy. 

“Stay?” she called back over her shoulder. “Well, I 
guess yes! Just tote your bag up to your old room, Barney. 
I aired it only yesterday; everything set. Touch a match to 
the kindlings and wash up and then we’ll eat. God be 
praised, there’s waffles and maple syrup, Barney. I do hope 
you’ve fetched your appetite along.” 

Alone in the upper chamber, Austen for a moment stood at 
bay. His mood of joy was challenged by the grim reality of 
his life, but he shook off the hold, spiritually emerged again 
from the Shadow. He would have none of it here among the 
hills. He was on a vacation! 

He had abandoned everything that once he had craved. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


75 


But had he? He was simply doing what he, what any one, 
had a right to do, he insisted. But was he? 

“Why have you come?” The question arose as if an 
amused but curious friend asked it. “After all these years, 
why have you come?” 

“I don’t know!” Austen honestly acknowledged. Here 
he was and he meant to get the most out of it that he could. 
He was on a vacation! Reiteration restored self-respect. 

He lighted the fire, plunged his head into a basin of ice-cold 
water, and laughed at Nancy’s call from below: 

“Don’t be counting on your judgeship, Barney Austen,” 
she rippled. “If you don’t come while things is hot they’ll 
be cold, same as if you were just plain folks.” 

As he descended the little, crooked stairway, Austen heard 
Jonas mutter: 

“You seem to forget you’re talking to a judge, Nancy. 
You never was one to hold to respect.” 

“I guess that’s so, Jonas,” Nancy retorted. “Folks is 
just folks to me, and most of ’em are God-sent.” 

The meal was exactly what the evening meals of long ago had 
been: ham and golden eggs; flaky biscuits, maple syrup and 
marvellous waffles and pear sauce to cap the feast. 

“You don’t seem a mite different, Barney.” Nancy 
peered at him fondly. “At first glimpse you did have a new 
look, but it’s passing, leaving you—yourself.” 

“I am myself, Aunt Nancy. I’ve just come back, that’s 
all.” 

“That’s enough.” 

And still no word of Five Winds Farm was spoken. 

After supper Austen “helped with the dishes” in the old 
joyous way. He was cautioned against carelessness with 
china and glass; he was rebuked for keeping to a wet towel 
when dry ones were hanging close by. 

“Dear suz!” Nancy chuckled. “Home ain’t home with¬ 
out someone to scold and keep after.” 

It was when they were gathered in the living room that 
Austen sought the information for which he had come. At 
last he was honest enough to own the truth. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


76 

The Goodall living room was the final expression of the 
family feud which had existed since Jonas and Nancy 
were married. Across the orderly room there seemed to be an 
invisible line ending at the broad fireplace. On one side of 
that line were the Goodall possessions. Grim photographic 
or crayoned monstrosities flanked the west wall. Furniture, 
sacred to Goodall tradition, held stern place, while across 
the room, on the east side, the Smith heirlooms held their 
hard-won points of vantage. 

The Smiths’ taste had run not so much to perpetuating their 
own likenesses as to amazing flower pieces, dead birds, and 
cheerful mottos. The chairs were less rigid, less valuable, 
but more comfortable. The what-not held proof of the 
Smith tendency to wanderlust. Coral, Chinese figures, and 
foreign shells interspersed with seaweed and strange coins, 
added atmosphere to the east side. 

It was all as it had been, and before the hearth Jonas 
sat, on his side, in the deep chair of his ancestors, while Nancy 
rocked in her place. Austen took the middle position with 
that “damnable line” running, as he humorously thought, 
under his chair. 

“Some things can’t be mixed,” Jonas had once said when 
Austen, in a fit of mischief, had changed the furniture. 
“Marrying don’t settle what never was to be settled. Good- 
all and Smith don’t blend. Goodalls alias was settlers; 
Smiths alias was floaters. It’s when you keep some things 
apart that you can live easy.” 

In the firelight Austen gazed at his hosts. Jonas stared 
fixedly into the red glow, his pipe clutched between his teeth; 
Nancy swayed back and forth in her frivolous little creaky 
chair, as once her forbears might have rocked as their crafts 
rose and fell on the ocean. There was nothing fixed about 
Nancy. Her smile came and went; her hands were never 
idle; her friendly glance travelled from object to object, face 
to face, as if seeking new pleasure. 

And then quite irrelevantly Austen asked: 

• “What has become of Constance Maynard?” The 
barricade was down. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


77 


Jonas clucked disapprovingly; Nancy folded her knitting, 
patted it comfortably, and then advanced, by a side track. 

“You know the old Senator died?” she said. 

“Yes; the year that I was last here. I saw the account 
in the papers.” 

“Constance seemed to feel your not sending her a word.” 
Nancy spoke gently. 

“I—I couldn’t!” Austen bent his head. “I-” 

“Well! There, never mind,” Nancy soothed. “I alias 
held and I alias will that reasons are reasons and I call ’em 
good till they’re proven bad.” 

“Gosh!” ejaculated Jonas, whose objection to Nancy’s 
plastic state was deep-rooted. “Why in thunder don’t you 
come to the point and answer a civil question?” he asked. 

“I’m coming, Pa. Some come cantering, others running. 
I was never one to plunge. Now the old Senator”—she 
turned to Austen—“went awful sudden. He was up in that 
tower room of his, painting one of them pictures he used to 
indulge in, and his paint brush was up in the air when it— 
fell—and that was the end! Constance had the picture put 
in an elegant frame and called it Waiting.’ Waiting—like 
most of us is—to be finished, I take it.” Nancy wiped her 
eyes. 

“That must have been a shock to her.” Austen spoke 
feelingly. 

“Shocked all the common sense out of her if she ever had 
any,” Jonas broke in. 

“God Almighty had her in His keeping,” crooned Nancy. 

“He’s a powerful careless keeper, that’s all I’ve got to say,” 
mumbled Jonas. 

“Pa alias took it hard about what Constance did next,” 
Nancy continued, “but I hold that being a woman and 
young and handsome shouldn’t keep her from what she 
wanted to do—and it didn’t. She went overseas. She was 
left a lot of money. No one suspected the old Senator was 
anything like as rich as he was. He was rather near, you 
know, and kept Constance like she was his little private idol 
set up aloft; but when his will was read, it was found that he 


78 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


left her everything without a string to it—and then she went 
suddenly, as if running, to do all the things she’d never been 
let to do. She travelled far and furious—heathen lands 
what I didn’t know really was on the map. She wrote to me 
now and then. She changed and changed—she didn’t seem 
to have any leanings toward home. It certainly was curi¬ 
ous.” Nancy shook her head. 

“Scandalous!” grunted Jonas. “It would have served 
her proper if she’d been caught by some old harem-keeper 
and taught what is what. There’s something to say for the 
way the heathen handle women.” 

Nancy sighed, then laughed; presently she said: “I hold 
my opinions to myself until I know facts. . . . And 

then she came home, six months ago. Came home more 
beautiful than she was when she went away, but there was a 
sweet, trailing look in her eyes that upset me at first until I 
got used to it. It’s a queer look—I’ve seen it in the eyes of 
children just waking up. A look as if they was remembering 
nightmarish dreams and couldn’t quite fit in with the safe 
day. Barney, that’s God’s plain truth.” 

“I—I used to feel that way about her.” Austen spoke 
quietly. “I felt that it was due to her training—she was 
such a lonely yet happy girl, so ready and keen for life; but 
so defrauded of it by her father.” 

“I reckon the old Senator knew what he was about,” 
Jonas broke in. “The mistake he made was in thinking he 
had her trained and then leaving all that money to her. She 
ought to be spanked for her capers—or shut up. Ready for 
life! Ugh! Once she had a chance, she plunged in up to her 
elbows, and I miss my guess if she ain’t considerable sur¬ 
prised at her grab.” 

There was a pause. Then Nancy said quietly: “She’s 
married, you know, Barney.” 

Austen sat very still. Whatever he had expected, and why, 
he could not have told, but he had not expected this. 

“No, I had not heard,” he said quietly. “Someone from 
here?” 

“No* abroad. He’s blind.” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 79 

“Blind!” Austen, in spite of himself, showed his feeling. 
“Is she happy?” he asked, lamely. 

“Em wondering, Barney.” 

The two gazed into each other’s eyes; Jonas, having ex¬ 
hausted his ill-nature, was nodding across the separating 
line. 

“She ain’t ever going to let on if she ain’t, Barney. That 
would be her way. But one just naturally wonders.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


A USTEN went to his room, grateful for the solitude it 
offered. 

X JL He sat down by the hearth and tried not to think. 
He focussed his gaze upon a tiny flame creeping among the 
ashes seeking something upon which to feed and live! Pres¬ 
ently it caught a side-tracked shaving, revived, reached 
ambitiously toward a half-burned log, and danced joyously 
upon it. 

Austen’s face grew grimmer and grimmer as he watched the 
fire play—it became symbolic. He leaned over and fed the 
lapping tongue of flame with splinters; then kindling; lastly, 
a fresh log. And all the while he was realizing why he had 
come to Coverly. He had begun to live again—he had been 
reaching out and back to the time when he had ceased to 
live. He had come to see what time had done to Constance 
Maynard! He had dared come at last, though Heaven alone 
knew why. He wanted her now as he had wanted her 
through all the years while Fate had kept him from her; while 
he had seemed dead. 

“Blind!” He kept repeating the word. It seemed to sig¬ 
nify something baffling. “Married to a blind man.” 

Old habit again asserted itself. His own spiritual hunger 
must be discounted; as he turned to the woman and her 
problem, by this effort he righted himself, presently, and 
honestly acknowledged that it was not so much that Con¬ 
stance Maynard was married to a blind man as that she 
was married at all, that concerned him. 

His wonderment and surprise humiliated him. Why, 
indeed, should she not marry? What hold had he upon her 
that he should now resent, almost fiercely, the fact that in¬ 
stead of living out her drab, colourless life as so many New 

80 


SMOTHERED FIRES Si 

England women did, brought up as she had been, she had set 
forth upon a world journey and snatched her own happiness 
where she found it! 

But blind \” Again Austen clung to the word, and pres¬ 
ently it created a kind of dumb comfort that added to his 
humiliation and called forth action. 

He got up, unpacked his bag, and laid out his tramping out¬ 
fit—he meant to take to the trails early in the morning and 
before night go to Five Winds! He meant to hold his mind 
open until he saw Constance Maynard;—open to what? for 
what? 

Then he paused. He had not even asked whom she had 
married. The man was blind. That was all. Blind! 
Blind! 

Something revolutionary had apparently happened to 
Constance Maynard, but he meant to judge it only after 
seeing her himself. 

She had been the Romance in his scarred and empty life; 
as such she shone now, as the blazing log was doing—the log 
that had seemed dead. That she was married did not seem 
to change her. He had come back to his old self and that 
self claimed Constance Maynard, demanded justice for her. 

Austen seemed now, after all the years, to understand why 
he had lived his austere, monkish life. No religion or code 
had held him—it had been possible because of his sentimental 
attitude toward love, romance. He simply could not do 
otherwise. It had swayed him in dealing with his wife; it 
had overpowered him in his relations to Constance Maynard. 
He was, so he reflected, that kind of man. A man who 
could not compromise where his ideals were concerned. 

When, from bitterness and loneliness, he had contemplated 
any solace life offered, he had had to acknowledge that, to 
him, it would bring no solace but merely add to his burdens. 
It had been easier for him to strengthen himself to bear 
what he must than to seek escape as many could. 

And it had led him to this! Well, even so, because he was 
that sort of man, he was glad that he had not betrayed his 
ideal and could at least be spared contrition. 


82 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


He could recall Constance Maynard’s girl face without 
shame. Had her promise of loveliness been fulfilled ? In a 
dim way Austen found himself pitying her blind husband! 
Why? Why, indeed! 

It was strange, now that he recalled it, how he had been 
able during the years of his absence to picture Constance. 
He had seemed to keep her image clear for this day of 
reckoning. 

Had she suspected his unspoken love? Somehow he al¬ 
ways believed she had. Had he hoped she would wait, as 
women of her race and line did, for his return and explanation ? 
What right had he to hope? He who had given no explana¬ 
tion ? 

Then common sense decried this selfish, egotistical thought. 
He laughed bitterly now, facing the truth. She had not 
waited—why, indeed, should she? She had gone forth and 
beaten her way out as he had, and their paths had never 
crossed; must not, now! He was a sentimental ass. Men 
often were. Women were more practical. So the gamut 
ran. 

What a fool he had been with his dreams and altars and 
faith in things the world did not know. Life wasn’t like 
that. If men took the course he had, how could women be 
expected- 

And all the while he was beating his way out he had be¬ 
come—what? A successful business man; a judge of his 
fellow men; one in whose hands lay power to sentence! But 
under and through all, this living spark had for ever been 
eating its way through the ashes. “When he was free!” 
That had been his secret comfort. Again Austen laughed 
bitterly and made ready for bed. 

He slept soundly, once he succumbed to the weariness that 
gradually asserted itself, and, refreshed, he went down to 
breakfast next day in his rough tramping clothes. 

Nancy eyed him furtively. She had done much thinking 
herself during the night. Old memories had stirred in her 
heart. 

“Well, son”—there was relief in the voice—“you certainly 


SMOTHERED FIRES 83 

do look like you’d brought the past back in your satchel. I 
can’t get the idea out of my head that I’ve been making up a 
dream and telling it to you. That really things are as they 
were.” 

“I’ve been thinking that myself.” Austen took his place 
at the table. “I’m going to prove it, Aunt Nancy, and if 
you have been fibbing, beware!” 

Yes, I 11 beware, all right.” Nancy turned away with 
her soft laugh that ended in a softer sigh. 

“By the way,” Austen asked, “what is Constance May¬ 
nard’s married name? I may drop in upon her before the 
end of the day.” Outwardly he certainly was reassuring. 

“Warren. She’s Mrs. Vance Warren.” 

“That sounds New Englandish. I gathered from her 
marrying abroad that she had married a foreigner.” 

Nancy, bearing a plate of amber rolls to the table, said 
quietly: “Roots were New England on the father’s side; the 
mother was Italian, I’ve heard. This here young man al¬ 
ways lived overseas until he married Constance. He’s the 
beautifulest creature I ever saw, barring his blindness. I 
ain’t keen about handsome men. I like ’em clean-limbed and 
upstanding. Too much good looks is terrible excusing for— 
what shouldn’t have no excuse.” 

“You mean, Aunt Nancy-” Austen held her with his 

eyes. 

“Oh! Barney”— Nancy Goodall sat down and turned 
her gentle face to him—“I am just that muddled about 
things I cannot mean anything. I ain’t going to say a thing 
more until after you’ve looked about. I always hold that we 
haven’t a right to dress things up in our ideas until others 
have had as good a chance as we have. Maybe it was his 
blindness—I don’t know. It somehow don’t seem right. 
Yet—I don’t know! Do you remember how Constance used 
to act when she did some staggering thing? She always 
’peared to be more interested in what she’d brought about 
than scared at it. Well, that’s the way she looks now— 
mighty interested, and not as concerned as them who look on. 
She takes after her kin on her mother’s side, Barney. I’ve 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


84 

been remembering. The old Senator’s family was firm and 
even-balanced, but Constance’s mother’s line flew off at a 
tangent when least you expected it; but fly as they might 
they lighted on their feet and gave no sign of being top-heavy. 
There was an old Captain Wallace, a grandfather of Con¬ 
stance, as sailed, the Lord knows where, and writ it all in a 
book. I think Constance was marked by him and it had to 
work out in flesh and blood—the book wasn’t enough. Old 
Captain Wallace was for ever bringing things home with 
him that upset the community, and he’d act as if nothing was 
the matter, even when he’d about start a riot like he did 
when he let loose a couple of monkeys one time and another 
time brought a coal-black, half-naked man from Africa and 
learned him to cook and serve. Always he ’peared to 
think that such doings were, what you might say, common¬ 
place. He never could get that man to wear proper clothes.” 

“And you think?” Austen asked, vaguely forgetting his 
intention of learning things first-hand. 

“Lands, Barney! I’m just wondering.” 

At this juncture Jonas came in from his chores. These 
daily exactions reduced him to sullen gloom. While he dared 
not voice his sentiments, he rebelled against work; resented 
that a Smith, albeit she supported him in the home of his 
forbears, should demand service of him. A Smith indeed! 

Jonas sat down and glowered. 

“Going gallivantin’?” he asked Austen. 

“Something like that, Uncle Jonas. If Aunt Nancy will 
put up a bit of lunch I think I’ll try for Spread Eagle.” 

“Ugh! I reckoned you’d head t’other direction.” 

“I may take that in, too.” 

At nine, Austen departed. All day he wandered through 
the woods. He ate his luncheon at noon sitting on a sun- 
warmed rock; he saved enough for an evening bite, and he 
watched the sunset from a knoll four miles from Five Winds 
Farm. 

All day he had seemed to be escaping from something. 
The sensation was uncanny. The years with their ac¬ 
cumulation had been gradually dropping until, when he 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


85 

forced himself to think sanely of his place back among the 
duties and perplexities, he grew confused as he might at the 
aspect of a stranger’s life. They did not seem legitimately 
his; even Verity was obliterated for the time being. He 
had never felt more detached from what he believed himself 
to be than he did at that moment when most he needed a 
calm and level head. 

Amid the once familiar scenes he realized that the actors 
were playing a new part and that he, all unprepared, had 
been assigned a minor role that might, by an unexpected 
trick of fate, become an important one. Much depended 
upon going slow; watching, waiting, and holding to facts, 
and not to that absurd trick of his of transforming facts into 
ideals. 

Austen drew himself up sharply. What was he con¬ 
templating? Was it true, after all, that one never conquers 
temptation? that it is only when what lures does not tempt 
that we repudiate it? Had his years but fitted him for folly? 
For expecting again to possess what time had obliterated? 

What really was happening to Austen was what has hap¬ 
pened to men and women since time began. Once hope 
rose, he was battling for what was his own; for what he had 
desired even while he had trained himself to believe he had 
relinquished it. 

With Mary Carlin—dead! ... he suddenly thought 
and shuddered as if an icy blast had struck him. All the 
recent horror swept over him, but even as it overwhelmed 
him, he struggled. He had come back to seek help where 
he had hoped that help had waited for his coming. In¬ 
stead— 

“Married to a blind man!” The words became a dull 
mocking refrain. 

Well, at last he must now use his knowledge as a slayer of 
dreams and romantic folly. 

No more harbouring the impossible and enshrining it. Life 
henceforth should be lived sanely. Really sanely—not 
superficially so. 

Who among the men with whom he associated could con- 


86 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


ceive the depths of his sentimentality? Suppose they 
suspected? Well, what did he know of other men? That 
last question had a tendency to reinstate his self-respect. 
He recalled caprices of men he had known. Once he had 
laughed at them. He never would again! Caprices might 
be safety valves. 

Definitely Austen knew that he had abruptly come to the 
parting of the ways. Verity with her yearning and demands 
had stung him to action. He was no longer going to slink 
and hide. He would have what was his own, even if his own 
included a sensible recognition of this sentimental relation to 
Constance Maynard. He would not permit himself to go on 
“mooning,” as he termed it, any longer. 

At last he had himself in control—or thought that he 
..had! 

Five Winds House stood on the crest of a hill that com¬ 
manded a broad view on all sides. Wind-swept and sun- 
kissed, it had sheltered the Maynard family for three 
generations. Through its wide door, opening to the west, 
had entered women of other names, only to become absorbed 
by the strong and upright codes of the Maynards. These 
women offered upon the family altar beautiful daughters and 
gifted sons. For this service they received homage and 
protection. Only now and then did a woman of the house 
ask for more. When she did she was curbed at once—not 
resentfully or harshly, but firmly, reverently. 

Always some Maynard served his country as representative 
at Washington, or as governor of his state. Doctors, judges, 
and writers were born and reared in the old house; went out 
from its shelter, lived honourably; returned to rest luxuri¬ 
ously, at life’s close; and then, with homely honours, were 
carried forth at the end, and placed beside others of their line 
in the quaint, sunny, cheerful old graveyard behind the 
vine-covered village church. 

No woman, except the last daughter of the house, had ever 
travelled afar without a male protector and guide. 

Over the main doorway of Five Winds House some ambi¬ 
tious son of letters had had carved these words: 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


87 


North Wind, South Wind 
East Wind and West, 

Shifting, drifting Fifth Wind 
Of all Winds loved the best. 

That Maynard had imagination when he classified the 
“changing wind.” 

Making his way down the trail, Austen recalled, as though 
a picture were passing before his eyes, the fanciful words, 
and smiled. 

“You always seem to come with the Fifth Wind,” Con¬ 
stance used to say. “It picks you up from somewhere and 
drops you here. I call it the wind that brings a friend.” 

All day the west wind had swayed the trees and bent the 
dry grasses, but at sunset the wind shifted here, there, seek¬ 
ing a quarter. 

‘Til get bewitched if I don’t look out.” Austen bent his 
head and pressed on. “Once you cut loose from your 
moorings you are lost—or found.” 

Again snatches of old song rose to his lips; he whistled at 
times. The grave judge was dragging his anchors. 

He walked under the stars to the Five Winds Hill; he was 
dusty, and the burrs of the wayside clung to his clothing. 
It was as it should be. In the garb of the city he would 
have been a stranger. Above all else he must not seem a 
stranger! 

There were lights in the big friendly house. Austen stood 
and looked at them. Off there in the north side of the tower 
was the old studio of Constance’s father. His playroom, 
they called it, the nook he fled to from his busy public life 
and where he painted those unbelievably bad pictures that 
no one dared to smile at! There hung his last picture— 
“Waiting.” 

The downstairs rooms were all aglow and the door leading 
into the broad entrance hall was ajar. There would be a 
generous fire on the hearth, Austen knew, although the night 
was not cold. 

He stepped noiselessly upon the piazza. He tapped 


88 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


lightly upon the swaying door; it fell back and he saw Con¬ 
stance Maynard by the hearth. She was bending forward 
across her clasped and outreaching hands. She was looking 
into the deep red bed of embers. But at the slight sound of 
the opening door she turned and stood up. The shock was 
great, but in a moment she rallied. 

“Oh!” was all she said, but on the instant Austen realized 
the seal of beauty and loveliness that the years had put upon 
her. All that she had promised had been fulfilled. The 
touch of time and experience had but intensified it, fixed it. 
She looked but little older. By and by, when age fell upon 
Constance Maynard, it would merely shade and soften her 
loveliness; it would never mar her. 

“I am sorry if I have alarmed you, Constance.” 

“Oh!” Then she reached out her hands. Her name on 
his lips had steadied her. 

Austen smiled and, in detail, took her in. She wore a 
short skirt—she, too, had been on the trails, trails that had 
not crossed his. Her feet were shod in her tramping boots, 
to which the clay clung at the heels. Her heavy white 
sweater was open at the throat and her wonderful hair still 
held the wilful, uplifted look which the wind had given 
it. 

Austen could think of nothing relevant to say. The sight 
of her so familiar—yet unfamiliar—held him. Then, as one 
often does at a tense moment, he remarked: 

“I see the motto’s still there, over the door,” and he took 
her outstretched hands. 

His words seemed of tremendous importance. It was 
like the password that gave them the right-of-way back. 

“Yes, it is still there, Barney.” She spoke his name almost 
defiantly. “Eve had it retouched. And”—she listened, as 
she led, rather than pointed to a chair by the hearth—“and 
the Fifth Wind—hear it, Barney? It has brought you 
again.” 

They sat down opposite each other, their eyes clinging as 
though fearful that a dropped glance might destroy the 
illusion. They spoke in lowered tones. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


89 

“Why have you come, after all these years ?” The question 
broke suddenly and was followed by a painful flush. 

“To see you. To hear what has occurred.” The bald 
truth restored the woman to calm. 

With a little shrug she seemed to gather a shield of dignity 
about her. It chilled Austen like a draft of cold air. 

“There isn’t much to hear. Fm married, you know?” 

“Yes—I stayed with the Goodalls last night.” 

“Doesn’t it seem queer?” The question fell from the faintly 
smiling lips as if it referred to another’s life, not the speaker’s. 

“It does, somehow, seem queer,” Austen replied, “though 
why it should I do not know.” He seized upon the cue that 
Constance’s regained composure and assurance gave him. 

“Neither do I, but I often wonder about it. And now, as 
I look at you sitting there, almost the same, and feel myself 
real at last and not in a dream, it seems stranger than ever.” 

How easily, dangerously so, they fell into talk. That 
had always been their way. It was as if a meeting unloosed 
the flood that had but bided its time. 

“You’ve been dreaming, too, then, Constance?” 

Austen kept his eyes on the glowing face. Its changing 
expressions charmed him. Dignity melted—the girl he 
knew flashed forth! Dignity arose—and the woman took 
command and warded off encroachment! It was baffling: 
aroused defiance. 

“I suppose we all dream dreams within dreams, until it is 
no wonder we are puzzled at times.” Constance raised her 
head—a trick that Austen recalled. “I lived in Italy for 
years, Barney, and Italy is a hotbed for dreams.” 

“I suppose so,” Austen smiled. 

“I—I must try to pick up the dropped threads.” Con¬ 
stance seemed nervously anxious to avoid pauses. “How 
much do you know about what has happened since you went 
away ?” 

“The Goodalls have told me something. I saw the notice 
0 your father’s death, of course, in the papers.” 

Austen courted pauses. They revealed so much. 

“Father’s death, you know, was so shocking. He was 


90 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


talking to me, telling me about his picture, laughing in his old, 
dear way. He apologized for wasting time and paint; said 
that I must have a hobby when I got old—and then with his 
brush lifted—that funny, quizzical smile on his face—he 
wasn’t there!” 

“Poor girl!” Austen bent forward. He wanted to touch 
her, but dared not. Once he would not have hesitated, but 
now he withdrew his hand, fearing he might rouse the woman 
of her. 

“I’ve learned, Barney, to be so glad about it. We’re 
so horribly selfish. The shock and misery were mine. For 
him? Why, often since, I have fancied him just going on 
with his work and suddenly wondering what had happened 
when he saw that his work was no longer bungling! I think 
that is what it will be like at first, with us all—we’ll at least 
know the truth; know that there will be no more bungling.” 

“I hope it will be like that.” Austen looked away from 
the vivid, brave face. 

“But you, Barney, tell me of yourself . . . since I 

last saw you.” The moment’s pause was alarming. “While 
I was away I heard of you, now and then; I was glad for you. 
I used to smile, all by myself, and call you a wise young 
judge—for you never would pass judgment on anything in 
the old days, you know; you used to say you dared not—and 
I fancied you sitting aloft, judging and sentencing your kind. 
Life changes one so.” 

Austen winced. 

“I think, really,” he spoke slowly, “that I have never done 
either. In a sense I have always managed to get off the bench 
and stand beside the man or woman at the bar. I have 
tried to get their point of view; understand why they did 
what they did; and then when I climbed back to the bench, 
I fell upon the poor thing we’ve mauled into shape and called 
justice, and prayed to heaven that the poor wretch might be 
able to get my point of view.” 

Constance laughed delightedly. 

“Again I say, ‘wise young judge’! You are still young, 
Barney.” Then, and her eyes rested on his face critically: 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


9i 


“I hoped you would be like that. As I look again I see— 
well, Barney, I see that you have not escaped being judged 
and sentenced yourself, too, like the rest of us.” 

“I hope so.” 

A silence fell between them—a silence that welded the 
past and present together as words never could have done. 
As in the old days, their understanding of each other reached 
across all barriers and touched confidently. The ideal still 
held in the midst of changed conditions. 

They smiled, unconsciously, and then started almost 
guiltily as they heard approaching steps. Slow, seeking 
steps, guided by a groping hand upon the side walls. Austen 
feared, he knew not what. It was like standing in a haunted 
house awaiting the approach of a spectre he had heard de¬ 
scribed. 

Closer came the steps. Constance and Austen still looked 
at each other, with the smile dying on their lips. For a 
moment they had seemed so safe, so distant—but now? 
The steps were on the broad stairs; they were crossing the 
hall; they were by the hearth! 

“Con, are you here? I heard voices.” 

The spectre made its demand and both Austen and Con¬ 
stance faced it. 

“Yes, Vance, I am here. An old friend has come—Bar¬ 
nard Austen. Barney, my husband!” 

Never had Austen been so taken off his guard. Without 
speaking, he took the long, white, delicate hand extended, 
gropingly, toward him; his eyes were fixed upon the beautiful 
poetic face—a boy’s face with eyes hid behind dark glasses. 

“He cannot be more than twenty-two or-three,”—a hard 
something was registering in Austen’s brain—“and blind!” 

“You have come from where?” The voice was musical. 

Austen rallied. 

“New York,” he replied, and it sounded inane, meaning¬ 
less. 

“You smell of the woods,” Warren said. 

“I have been tramping in them all day. I am staying at 
Lower Farm.” 


92 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“Oh, yes. Let us sit down. A friend is a great excite¬ 
ment, isn’t it, Con? We’re lonely at times, naturally.” 

The voice had rare cadences. In its cultivated tones there 
was a suggestion of amusement that might signify shyness, or a 
brave attempt to ward off sympathy. Then, as they all sat 
down, Warren said: 

“My blindness has, as usual, sharpened my other senses. 
The odour of pines and hemlock clings. Constance, where 
has our friend been? Where are the pines thickest?” 

“I make a guess”—Constance was all aglow and eager: 
“You’ve been on Spread Eagle, Barney.” 

“Yes.” 

“You rested for a bit—under The Pilgrims—going or 
coming.” 

“I rested going up.” Austen watched Warren; saw the 
smile flit over his face. 

“Thanks, Con. Now another test. Your voice, Austen, 
somehow suggests you, and yet a voice misleads. Now, one 
would think Constance could sing, but she cannot, and you— 
your voice suggests-” 

“Come, Vance!” Constance broke in, “no more dissect¬ 
ing. Let us take as is and make the most of it.” 

And so for an hour more the three sat around the fire and 
talked commonplaces. 

Italy, New York, the amazing sameness of Coverly; then 
the Goodalls and their oddness. Warren laughed boyishly 
when old Jonas was discussed. 

And when it was time to go, Austen rose and said: 

“It’s been quite wonderful—the going back and the 
catching up. May I come again?” 

“Yes, and soon.” Constance stretched forth her hand. 
“I’ll leave the door ajar, Barney.” 

“Thanks. Good-night, Warren.” 

A moment later the door swung to after Austen, and 
Warren leaned back in his chair, as if weary. Constance 
knelt beside him and her head rested on his arm. 

“Tell me, Con, is he young or old ? Must I play the jealous 
husband or the compassionate one?” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


93 


“ Neither young nor old—verging more to young. You’re 
to play nothing, Vance, dear, just—be!” 

“Good! And, Con, would you mind closing that door?—• 
there is a draft. Lock it—the wind shakes it. I suppose 
your ghost wind is on a lark. By the way, it has brought a 
friend, hasn’t it? I recall your pretty fancy.” 

Constance rose, closed the outer door and locked it. 

“Thanks, dear. It’s wonderful, having you. When I am 
on edge—and the wind always edges me—you are like a 
strong wall that shuts me away, safe. I must go to bed now. 
I’ve always noticed that if I can get to sleep before the 
wakefulness gains the upper hand, I’m all right.” 

“Vance, let me help you”—for Warren was rising, groping. 

“I can find my way, thanks. It’s great, this learning to 
know the way about. Are you too tired to read ?” 

“I’m not tired at all, Vance. I’ll come at once. What shall 
we read?” 

“Something of Stevenson’s; anything of his that is handy. 
It’s the man that counts with him—the man who got the best 
of things.” 


CHAPTER IX 


4 


A FTER Warren left, Constance unlocked the outer door 
quietly and set it wide to the starry, windy night. 
- She stood in the doorway and, in thought, followed 
Austen. 

Since her marriage she had lived such an existence as only 
one of her temperament could live. By hedging around 
each day with stern determination not to feel, she had 
achieved much. 

Austen’s appearance, for a moment, had shattered her de¬ 
fences, but she mended them quickly. All her life she had 
doggedly clung to a childish code: “If you must cry, hide it! 
Don’t let any one see you do it.” 

Her ability to hold to her code had given her security. 
What went on behind her barricade was her own business 
and God’s. Constance Maynard still kept her God. The 
God of her fathers, softened by time, but none the less the 
New England God. 

Standing with the night before her, the searching, reaching 
wind touching her hair and wistful face, she thought: 

“Oh! if I could only tell you, Barney, all about everything.” 
Then: “But I never will! I must go on living on the sur¬ 
face, day by day. But I am so glad—you’ve come back.” 

Deeply she realized that Austen had come back! Why he 
had left her life so suddenly, what had kept him away so long 
in the silence, unexplained, she no longer questioned. He had 
come back. Standing there, her duties and cares in the 
rooms behind her, she felt that she had never really doubted 
Austen; had always held him apart for the day of his return. 

“And now,” she thought sadly, “I cannot tell him any¬ 
thing. I can only know that he is here. I have forfeited 
my right to tell him things!” 


94 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


95 


She returned to the warm room, sweetly scented with the 
piney fragrance of the burning logs; she did not lock the door 
but left it ajar on its heavy chain. 

“ For air!” She smiled softly at the folly of her real reason. 
Then with dragging feet she mounted the stairs to read 
until midnight to Vance Warren. When he slept—like a 
tired child—she undressed quietly, lay down upon her bed 
beside his, and refused to question or repine. This was her 
life. On the surface everything seemed as it had been, but 
the depths were heaving, and Constance had denied that 
there were depths! 

At daybreak she arose, bathed, and dressed. She wore her 
heavy skirt and muddy shoes, sweater and cap. She listened 
to Warren’s even breathing; all was quiet in the house. Then 
she tiptoed downstairs and into the kitchen. Her servants— 
a village couple—were there. 

“I’m going for another tramp,” she explained. “Will you 
see that Mr. Warren has his breakfast at nine? I will take a 
sandwich with me, and I will be back as soon as I can. Tell 
Mr. Warren I’m going to the sugar bush.” 

The sun was just rising over the Saw-tooth range when 
Constance ran down Five Winds Hill and struck the trail 
leading up to Spread Eagle. 

So subtle is the power of imagination that, in the mystical 
light of the early day, she was able to wrench herself free from 
the effect of her night’s vigil and her evening’s shock. Pres¬ 
ently she began to feel that she was running away from a 
danger that existed only in her ungoverned and weak imagi¬ 
nation. She was, thank Heaven, quite herself. 

“I am thirty-two!” This seemed of deepest importance. 
By repeating it, it reduced everything to normal. Women 
of thirty-two were wise. 

Austen had swept her off her feet—but why ? Why, indeed! 
For a moment he had carried her back where no one had a 
right to carry her—not even Austen. 

She had been such a little craven fool, back there in the 
past. A piece of putty in her father’s hands—no wonder 
Austen had played with her and, when he tired of her, or 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


96 

feared her foolishness, had gone to make his career and future 
safe. In like fashion Constance believed she had dealt with 
her girlish romance. She had not permitted it to overpower 
her. Once her shackles had been struck off she went, too, 
and sought the equivalent of a career. She had been able 
to live above her folly. What had the past to do with Aus¬ 
ten and her? Nothing except what friends might claim. 
Friends! 

“He went to become famous; I went to find out—and I 
have done so! Nothing shall force me back! We are quits. 
We can begin from here.” 

Constance looked her full thirty-two years as she plunged 
ahead, intent upon putting miles between herself and Austen 
as they once had been. 

“Of course he’ll go, again, to Five Winds. Men are so 
sure of themselves.” 

This was a damaging admission. 

But in spite of her sensible and courageous attitude of 
mind, the past did rise rampant, again and again, as Con¬ 
stance plodded on. Not for years had it been so insistent. 
It brought tender memories; humiliating ones, right ones, 
wrong ones. The more she struggled against the past, the 
more it claimed her. 

She had been so sure of Austen’s love—she, the poor, 
ignorant, subdued girl. Always thinking in terms of duty; 
prating of the glory of self-sacrifice when Austen sought to 
convince her of her rights, her self-expression. What talks 
they had had! 

Why had he tried to make her see? At first she believed 
it was because he loved her; wanted to wean her from her 
position. There had been wildly sweet hours when he had 
awakened—what? Something that she had not dared face; 
something that frightened her. And then, without a word, 
he had gone away! Not even her father’s death had called 
forth a word of sympathy. She must have betrayed herself 
vulgarly; he had not meant what she had believed! She had 
alarmed him. Later knowledge of life had shamed her into 
realization; had set a seal upon her emotions. This brought 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


97 . 

Constance Maynard sharply up to the present. She raised 
her head proudly. 

“And yet,” she murmured, “I am glad to see him back. 
Why ? I do not care why. I am glad to see him back. He 
shall now understand.” 

Now that she had her thirty-two-year self in hand, Con¬ 
stance could afford to walk slower and think her thoughts. 

Was she now, with all her experience, going to permit 
Austen’s old power over her to gain control? For a moment 
he had frightened her, but only for a moment! She had been 
mistaken, once, about Austen; she was wiser now. He need 
have no fear of her. She had, undoubtedly, once, charmed 
him. Young girls, such a girl as she had been, were al¬ 
ways attractive to men like Austen. He had arrived when 
he first met her; she was but arriving. He had recognized 
that, had taken pleasure in pointing the way to her, “blazing 
her trails,” he used to say. 

She had mistaken, in her crude egoism, his good-fellowship 
for passion. 

Over and over the past rolled and unrolled until Constance 
Maynard stood still, the morning sunlight on her face, and 
vowed to be a fool no more. Why should she explain, 
justify? 

Somewhere in the near distance a red-poll was giving his 
long-drawn cry of: “Listen! Listen!” And every fibre of 
Constance’s soul and mind listened! 

A terrifying honesty finally overpowered her. Only bjr 
facing squarely the facts dare she go on. She could not go 
round and round in a blind maze. Well, she had the facts 
fixed at last! 

Back in the beginning of Constance Maynard’s line there 
had been martyrs: men and women, driven by that force 
which can never be explained or understood. It drove them, 
willy-nilly, to stake or scaffold. Through each generation 
it drove them to what replaced the stake and the gibbet. 
They could face anything, bear anything when driven. 
Nothing could turn them once the propelling sense of duty 
gripped them. They might tear life apart, as Constance had;; 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


98 

they might snatch what they believed was theirs; but once 
they accepted it there was no turning back. 

All this rang in Constance’s thought while she listened. 
For a time she forgot Austen: this reassured her. And then 
Vance Warren’s boyish, beautiful face rose supreme. She 
could confront it without shame. 

The tormenting morning passed. Constance reached the 
clump of maples known as The Pilgrims, and found the little 
hut where her woodsman lived until winter drove him to 
the village. The man was smoking by the door and viewed 
his young mistress through cold, calculating eyes. He had 
revered and feared the old Senator, but he resented the 
daughter—as most of Coverly did, since her return with her 
blind young husband. 

“I want to develop the sugar trees,” Constance told him; 
“and I mean to leave it all in your hands.” 

This was as it should be, and along the line of business 
they could travel together. It was after two o’clock when 
Constance turned her face homeward. She thought, now, 0/ 
Vance and his lonely day. She pictured him sitting by the 
fire alone. Feeling his way to the dining room, eating 
alone! Austen did not enter her thought at all. She was 
triumphant. 

As the wind blew through the trees in soft, creeping tones 
it sounded like Vance’s groping touch along the walls, not 
Austen’s demanding presence. When Constance could think 
of Warren in that fashion her heart warmed with pity and 
sympathy. It was when he resented that attitude that she 
feared him; feared life. Only she never showed fear—she 
had got over that! 

The business of the day, the life-giving air and beauty, had 
restored her poise and calm. The effect of Austen’s appear¬ 
ance was passing. She smiled faintly. One could, if one so 
willed, live deeply and well on very little, she reflected. As 
she walked on, she rehearsed the role she had decided upon 
for herself long ago. Love was not everything in a woman’s 
life any more than it was in a man’s. There were splendid 
opportunities, if one were not a fool! 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


99 


Little things caught and held her attention as she walked 
more slowly along. Two belated golden butterflies were 
fighting in the warm sunshine, fighting when their time was 
so short to do things. As sensibly might two autumn leaves 
fight, or two sunbeams. 

“No one in all the world shall ever again get me in his power,” 
Constance declared, and the white teeth clenched as though 
an antagonist were challenging her. “And there is to be no 
time wasted in fighting shadows, either!” All this to-do, 
simply because an old friend had taken her unawares. It 
was absurd; humiliating. A laugh was possible now. 

Constance stood, as she came to this conclusion, by a 
stone wall. One hand lay upon the vine-covered top. 
She loved to feel the crisp leaves under her touch, the re¬ 
sistance to her fingers when she lifted the sturdy branches. 

It had been a wonderful day! After all, there are joys 
outside the realm of men and women; there are spirit contacts 
with “things.” One can thrill to a bird note or the cry of an 
animal. 

“I suppose it is that in us which is for ever lonely,” Con¬ 
stance thought, “set apart, knowing only a kinship with the 
invisible.” 

At that moment a hand, laid upon hers, drove her far 
afield, where the day’s wild conclusions deserted her. 

She turned. Austen stood near. His hand was upon hers. 
There were apology and determination in his eyes. 

“Do not draw your hand away,” he said. 

“I am not going to, Barney.” She would have scorned 
herself had she done so, though every thrill warned her. 

“I went to Five Winds. Of course you knew that I would 
go. They told me that you had gone to The Pilgrims, and 
again, oficourse, I followed on.” 

Austen had done some practical thinking during the night. 

“Are you in a hurry, Constance?” 

“I suppose that I should be, with Vance waiting for me; 
but he is so generous and one owes something to a returned 
friend, so I will be a bit lazy if you wish it, Barney.” 

They were outdoing each other now. 


IOO 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“I wish it very much. Let us take the brook trail. It al¬ 
ways seemed the most beautiful one to me.” 

“Yes. It is such a rover, just happening along and doing 
.such unexpected things.” 

They struck across the hilly meadow to the brook trail. 

“I wish, Constance”—Austen switched the stately brakes 
by the way—“I wish you would fill in the gap between our 
last walk here and this one.” 

“My dear Barney, what a mad proposition! As if I could!” 

“Well, then, as much as you can.” 

“That would be easier. The gap is rather packed with 
other happenings than mine, Barney. I told you the prin¬ 
cipal things last night.” 

“Tell me the less important. Fll play fair.” 

_ “Agreed! Well, then, you went away without bidding me 
good-bye, Judge Austen! Most deplorable bad manners.” 
Constance permitted her eyes to rest on his. 

“That was your father’s command!” 

“My father’s?” The smiling calm of the uplifted face 
was broken. As a lightning flash discloses an unsuspected 
danger in the dark, so Austen’s words did. 

“Oh, I never knew!” was what Constance said, and she and 
Austen were driven along the way ahead with keener under¬ 
standing. 

“I feared that you never did. Forgive my interruption. 
Go on, please.” Austen bent his head. 

“I—I told you of my father’s death. It was beautiful, 
but tragic. He had never shown me anything but his lovely 
nature—he and I had been walled away together. I had 
never been to school, even, had no girl friends, no one but 
him. Of course it was all wrong, but it was done in love, and 
€ven after he went and I stood utterly desolate I could not 
blame him. Above all things, Barney, he had failed in pre¬ 
paring me to do without him. And then came the money; 
more than any one dreamed of;more than I had even thought 
of. All mine, mine. It bewildered me, frightened me, and 
then it loosed something in me. It was a power that made it 
possible for me to do anything I wanted to do. Finding out 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


IOI 


what I wanted to do saved me from madness after Father 
went. I could not classify what I wanted in detail. I only 
knew that I wanted to go away, to be free, to know things!” 

“Things?” Austen glanced at her keenly. “Things?” 

Constance laughed lightly. 

“Oh, you cannot understand! Men never do—they can¬ 
not, or will not. Life unrolls so naturally to them; they take 
it as they travel on. Women have it thrust between their 
teeth just so much, no more. I wanted all of life and I 
wanted it in my own way. So I let go and went.” 

“You let go of what?” Austen was deeply interested. The 
woman beside him was revealing herself to him almost 
cruelly. Her indifferent frankness seemed to set him far from 
her and he resented that, even while he yearned to show his 
sympathy. 

“Oh, everything. All that my people hold sacred, tjhough 
it isn’t sacred at all: it is wicked, crushing, deadly. But I 
let go and went. As I turned my back I knew that in letting 
go I was being cast off. My people are like that. It was 
stupid and funny, but when I thought of travel the only 
places that I could think of were the ones in hymns and 
tracts and such—such literature as had been considered safe 
and proper for me. India’s coral strand and Greenland’s icy 
mountains. I even considered investigating the stronghold 
of the scarlet women of Babylon. So I booked up for a 
world’s trip. That seemed the simplest method of getting a 
semblance of what I wanted. Fancy me! Twenty-three, 
but about as ignorant as a girl of ten; a pocketful of money 
and bagfuls to draw on; hungry and thirsty for life—a 
modern fairy story. Of course a great many awful things 
might have happened, but they did not, and my native 
common sense came to the fore and clipped the wings of my 
suddenly developed imagination; only clipped them, Barney. 
It did not—break them. People were so kind. On sea and 
shore their kindness gave me time and opportunity to gain 
control of myself. I saw India and kissed her coral strand; I 
even ventured close to Greenland, and hobnobbed with some 
Babylonian ladies who wore their scarlet with beautiful 


102 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


grace. I joined some side-parties, and dropped from others; 
I lingered and dreamed and felt as if I were floating through 
space. And then after two or three years—think of it, 
Barney, years of drifting!—I began to want a place. My 
wings were tired. And then I realized that I had no place; 
nothing of my own. If I came back, what would I find? My 
empty house, nobody needing me, nobody wanting me. I 
would be a stranger to my home-town folks, and they to me. 
Their faces were already indistinct to me. You see, I had 
let go and so had they.” 

“My dear!” whispered Austen, but Constance did not heed. 

“A lonely rich woman, Barney, is the loneliest of all. If 
one is poor, there are noble souls who revel in giving—giving 
earthly, touchable things. But no one had anything to give 
me along those lines, and I had not the gift of winning love. 
I was eager to share, but no one seemed to want me, need me. 
I was hungry to be wanted. I used to think at the day’s end, 
that if I could find someone waiting for me , glad to see me, I 
would give all, all that I had. I suppose I grew queer. I 
know that I grew sullen and sad. I was so different from 
other women—I had found that out. I dared not show them 
how different I was. Sometimes I could see them smile at 
me and I became afraid of men. That’s another curse that 
the rich, lonely woman has—she dares not trust men. She 
grows suspicious. That, added to my fear, made me hard. If 
I couldn’t have love, I would not buy its counterfeit. I 
wanted the things that all women want, Barney, and I did not 
know how to get them. My money and freedom were the 
greatest obstacles. My freedom made me cheap; my money 
set me apart. And then, Barney, it happened!” 

The two on the brook trail looked in each other’s eyes. 

“What?” Austen asked sharply, almost savagely. 

“Vance Warren.” 

“Oh!” Austen looked away. 

“I was at a lovely inn in Italy, and the keeper and his 
wife were wonderful—so humanly dear. I could not speak 
their tongue, nor they mine, but we understood. I began to 
feel w r arm again; happy; like someone else. Perhaps we all 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


103 


have many personalities. I seemed to be a new self. Vance 
Warren was there—dying, everyone believed. An old aunt 
supported him—if one could call her niggardly care a support, 
and she was rich, too—rich and wicked. She was tired of her 
burden; tired of the pitiful responsibility it involved. She 
was obliged, occasionally, to come from England to see what 
progress he was making in dying. His illness—they thought 
it was tubercular—had affected his eyes—he was blind, but 
not hopelessly so, I learned. If his health could be restored, 
his sight might be. But they thought it was too late. Day 
by day I could see that he was failing. He had been an 1 
artist, a real one; some of his beautiful things were in his 
room. He wrote, too—exquisite verse. He never complained; 
he made a joke of the most tragic things. He would not be 
pitied. His courage shamed me, made me long to share it. 
Tm speeding up/ I once heard him say to the old aunt 
on one of her visits. ‘The doctor gives me a year or two at 
the most. Being young has its drawbacks when it comes to a 
race with death, but Fm gaining/ Barney, that brave dy¬ 
ing boy gave me something to do. I read to him, walked 
with him. When he could not sleep we sat on his balcony 
overlooking the little lake, and I learned to love the spirit 
of him, so like an unquenchable flame. I loved his mind— 
he had lived and learned so much. It was a rich, beautiful 
mind, and I was but an ignorant girl in comparison. We 
talked and I grew to understand, in a way, the values of 
things. He taught me. He had lived while I had vegetated. 
I asked his doctor—a famous man staying in the village—to 
tell me the truth about Vance, and he did. There were two 
years at the longest, and only good care and comfort could se¬ 
cure those. As things were then, the doctor said, Vance 
might last a year, but he doubted it;—and he might be puffed 
out at once. Two years, Barney, and he so young, so gifted! 
He had starved and slaved for his genius; had defied his 
aunt’s wishes and was obliged, in his misery, to accept her 
grudging aid! And then something wild in me broke loose. 
Something I do not expect any one on earth ever to under¬ 
stand. I wanted those two years of Vance’s life. I wanted 


104 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


to play God and live! It was the most exciting thing, the 
most tenderly beautiful. We loved each other, Barney. 
With that new self of me, we depended upon each other like 
two outcast souls. That was the one thing we agreed upon 
—our dependence upon each other. Of course, I told him 
that I was older than he, but the doctor, who was elderly, 
told him things that set my words aside. They laughed at 
me, the doctor and Vance. Italy is such a dangerous place for 
madness, Barney; it makes people madder when they are al¬ 
ready mad. Then I had to overcome my money. Vance hated 
that. He used to say that it was the greatest enemy to love. 
But in the end we got over the money, and then the old aunt 
saw her chance. She hated me, put the worst interpretation 
upon me, but she saw her opportunity. We were married 
at last, Barney—Vance and I. He was mine! It was the 
only way. I think I did my work so well in the two years 
that God trusted me. Do not laugh, Barney.” 

“I am not laughing.” And Austen looked as if he would 
never laugh again. He fixed his eyes on Constance’s face. 
He saw, as it were, a mask rise over it: a noble, beautiful mask, 
but none the less it obliterated all that he dared to call 
familiar, and it drove him back upon himself. 

“Vance recovered. His lungs are quite all right. Love 
and happiness mended them, and now he is getting stronger 
and perhaps he may regain his sight some day. The doctors 
are giving us hope. Think, Barney, what God and I have 
done!” Then the frank gaze seemed to demand, “And, 
having saved him, do you think I will cast him off—ever?” 
The challenge shone clear. 

“Thank you, Constance.” Austen rose to the silent call of 
the soul. 

“It is an idyl,” he continued, “the most beautiful one I 
ever knew. I did not believe such a one could survive in the 
world to-day. No one but you and your husband could have 
wrought such a miracle. I wanted to see what life had done 
to you, Constance, and I see! I cannot tell you my part in 
the gap of years to-day,” Austen added, “but I will—before 
I go back to New York.” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


105 


Slowly they emerged from the woods. The early gloaming 
lay in the valley, but the hilltops were flaming. Under the 
ice of restraint surged the warm flood of perfect understand¬ 
ing in both Austen’s heart and the heart of the woman beside 
him. At last she said: 

“It’s good to have you back, Barney. I seem, at last, to 
be my old self.” 

He smiled into her demanding, commanding eyes. 

“It’s great to be back, Constance. Great! But you are 
not your old self.” 

“What then?” 

“Something—more wonderful.” 


CHAPTER X 


I T AIN’T natural!” Nancy Goodall confided to Austen 
several days after his arrival and after he had had time, 
so she thought, to get the point of view of Coverly 
regarding Constance. “It’s agin nature, Barney, and that 
alias sets folks at bay. All the making-believe in the world— 
and Constance alias was a master hand at that—can’t make 
lobsters into humming birds. She’s older by ten years than 
. Warren; she’s rich and he’s poor as a herd of church mice and 
blind as a bat into the bargain. I’ve battled no end, since she 
came trailing home with her quarry, to hush tongues and hold 
to Constance’s fairy tale. But she’s made herself a stranger 
in the home of her people. I have done somewhat in shut¬ 
ting mouths, but the men have their joke in the tavern, and 
the women can’t be free and easy when all nature is agin it. 
Five Winds is putty much shut off.” 

Austen had listened and grown thoughtful; had sought to 
add his mite to the effort to make unreality appear real. 
“Aunt Nancy, love is a magician, you know,” he said. 
“Very good, Barney, but it ain’t as blind as most folks try 
to make it.” 

“Constance Maynard is beautiful and young. People can¬ 
not possibly think she had a low motive in marrying.” 

“He can’t see her beauty, son, and the need of money over¬ 
tops a good deal. Folks resent what they cannot understand.” 

“He has the artistic temperament, Aunt Nancy. He adores 
his wife, that’s plain enough.” 

“Maybe!” Aunt Nancy, her arms elbow deep in flour, nod¬ 
ded her head. 

“And she has little thought for anything but him,” Austen 
added. 

“That would be her way of handling the matter,” Nancy 
106 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


107 


sighed. Then, after a pause: “It’s just like us all was skid¬ 
ding on thin ice, Barney. Any one of us may go in a hole; 
if we bump against each other too rough, the whole lot of us 
may break through. Constance Maynard, poor lamb, has 
started something, sure enough, and there are times when I 
think she’s more interested in watching it than the rest of 
us are.” 

And Austen had to let it rest there. 

Letters came to him from Verity and Lewis. He read them 
as he might letters belonging to another. He knew that he 
ought to return to his home, but he lingered on while the 
autumn turned the countryside to Oriental splendour, and 
the nipping air, morning and evening, warned that winter 
was not far off. 

After the first week it became easy to sit by the fire at 
Five Winds and feel safe, or approximately so. Warren ex¬ 
panded, showed his best phase to Austen, the brilliant, half- 
cynical phase that was so perplexing in one as young as he. 

“It’s the only possible attitude he can take with any de¬ 
gree of assurance,” Austen thought. “Only by disdaining 
certain stern facts can he hold to others.” 

Warren would recite poetry by the hour in his rich, musical 
voice; he sang, too, while Constance accompanied him on 
piano or violin. And Constance, by endowing everything 
and everyone with the novelty and charm of Austen’s com¬ 
panionship, was merry and apparently happy. 

There were moments now, and Austen watched for them, 
when something of the past escaped and rose supreme and 
defiant. An old song, a recalled conversation, brought the 
timid, sweet girl back to him; the girl that had held place in 
his lonely years as the dear dead might have. 

The dead! No, not that. He would not accept that. 

On the trails it was not so easy to hold each other at bay. 
Except on near-by paths Warren declined to join them, and 
alone, in the open where once they had learned to under¬ 
stand each other, it was perilous travelling. All topics seemed 
to lead them to that sense of happy detachment. 

It was the day before Austen had finally decided to return 


io8 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


to New York that he had the talk with Constance that 
marked so clear an epoch in several lives. Quite frankly, the 
night before, as he was leaving Five Winds House, he said 
that he was going and asked Constance to walk with him to 
The Pilgrims. 

She had hesitated but Warren urged her. 

“I’m going to pick out a tune on the violin,” he said, “and 
I have decency enough to demand isolation. I’ll go to the 
studio and feel free.” 

So, directly after the noon-day meal, Austen and Constance 
set forth. 

It was a cloud-tattered day; gray, but shining like silver. 
The autumn foliage seemed to have been varnished by a 
magic brush. It gleamed and the wind swayed it into 
kaleidoscopic figures. Across the sky, in Indian file, the 
crows flew, giving vent to their impudent, mocking cries as 
they swept on over the swinging tree-tops. 

“How trees do talk!” Constance said as they left the 
west pasture and struck into the wood trail. “I think Amer¬ 
ican trees have a language of their own—and dialects.” 

“I shouldn’t wonder.” Austen looked away from the 
glowing face. “I have never been abroad, you know. Is 
there a difference?” 

“There is, Barney. I cannot explain it. Perhaps it is 
in me, but I used to feel, in the forests abroad, as I did in 
cities: lonely for the home tongue.” 

“You were lonely?” Austen asked. 

“Before Vance came into my life—yes.” 

“And after that?” 

“I had something of my own at last.” 

“That changes everything for us, I know.” Austen gave 
her a frank glance. 

This seemed a blind trail of talk, and it ended abruptly in 
a silence that neither seemed in haste to break. 

“Ah!” Suddenly Constance stopped and looked up. 
“There go some snowflake birds—hear them chatter. They 
bring notice of winter. Winter comes early to the hills. I 
wonder-” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


109 


“What, Constance?” 

“How Vance is going to endure the cold.” 

There seemed to be a definite purpose in keeping Warren 
in their thought. Austen resented it; it seemed to assume—■ 
what? 

“Why did he come from his sunny Italy?” he asked. “His 
thoughts cling to it.” 

“He wanted to know my home,” Constance replied; 
“know the place in which I had my roots. You see I, too, 
can cling, and Vance is generous and unselfish.” 

“I see. And you will return to Italy, Constance?” 

“Not for some time, unless Vance’s health fails. So far 
it has improved.” 

It was a little after two when they reached The Pilgrims 
and stood leaning upon a stone wall to catch breath and gaze 
upon the bewildering beauty that lay below. 

“Talk of autumn being the saddest season of the year!” 
Constance cried. “Why, it is the one season that shouts 
victory.” 

“And may not victory be sad?” Austen asked. 

“Never, Barney, never! It may be bleak and lonely, but 
if it is victory it is glorious.” 

“It may not be a right victory. What then?” 

“It still has its thrill.” This less confidently. 

“Is it too chilly for you to sit here for a short time?” Aus¬ 
ten asked. 

“I’d love it. See!” Constance jumped up and swung her 
feet across the stone wall. “Now, then, Barney, sit here and 
look at the valley below. Do you remember?” This was 
incautious. 

“Yes. So we sat on the last day of my stay here years ago. 
That evening your father and I had a talk. I left on the mid¬ 
night train.” 

Constance did not speak or move. She felt as if she had 
dislodged something and must await its descent. To move 
might imperil safety—but was there any safety? 

Austen was speaking. 

“I even remember your words as we sat here on the wall, 


no 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


looking at the valley and the roads over which we had come. 
We had lost our way several times; we could see from the 
top, where we had made our wrong turns, but we had always 
been facing the upward way. You said that God must feel 
as we did as He watched, and it must amuse Him as He 
looked from the top at our struggles.” 

“Did I say that, Barney? I cannot imagine myself, in 
those days, thinking of God as amused. I can now, but then 
He seemed always a stern God, out for vengeance if we lost 
the trail.” 

“You were very bewitching that day, Constance. I think 
you were half afraid of your daring. I recall that you pointed 
out the spot where you took one trail and I the other to in¬ 
vestigate. I lorded it over you because I was right.” 

“Oh, but, Barney, don’t you remember, from the top we 
agreed that the trails came together a little farther on?” 

“Did they? I had forgot that.” 

Again they came to the stone wall of silence. The hidden 
meaning under the words had broken through as Austen 
smiled at Constance. 

Then, as if aware of the insecurity of this idle talk, Austen 
said abruptly: 

“After I saw your father that night, Constance, I went 
away without seeing you because he felt that I should. I had 
confided in him. There was a woman in my life. He would 
not let me tell you. I wanted to.” 

This was a wild plunge, but Constance reacted calmly. 

“I think I always knew.” There was no shock in the even 
voice. This surprised Austen and at the same time gave 
him comfort. 

“ It was only when you did not come back, Barney, that 
I knew it was serious. I had hoped that you would count 
upon my . . . sympathy.” 

Austen appeared not to hear. 

“It was an incubus. It clung weakly, tenaciously,” he 
went on grimly, “but with a throttling hold. I could have 
shaken off a strong thing; this was so weak. But I tried 
to strike even this off at that time. I left here firmly re- 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


hi 


solved to do so, but it eluded me. This is difficult to explain, 
but the woman was my wife, Constance.” 

“Your wife!” 

Constance’s face turned a dead white. Her eyes widened 
and she drew her breath sharply. She could have borne the 
lesser relation, but—his wife! There was something in that 
tie that defied her. 

“Let us walk toward home, Barney,” she said, quietly, 
ashamed of her sensation but unable to overcome it. 

“Must we, Constance?” 

“Yes. We can walk slowly. There is a chill in the 
air.” 

She longed to know all, but could not ask for more. She 
had become an outsider. Against a wife she could not prevail. 

Side by side they began the descent. The chill rose from 
their hearts to their lips, but in Austen’s soul was a desperate 
demand for justice. He could not let that look of despair 
remain on Constance’s face. She would never ask for more 
than he would give in confidence, her code would hold her 
from him. Husband and wife were sacred things to her. 

And just then, just when Austen meant to tell her every¬ 
thing, fling himself, too late perhaps, but unreservedly upon 
her mercy, she gave a startled cry and sprang away from his 
side. He looked down, and there by the path lay a dead 
rabbit. Torn and mangled by a trap, it had been tossed 
away by a hunter. There is something awesome in the pres¬ 
ence of a dead wild animal, and this crushed creature’s eyes 
were wide and staring. The look in them seemed to demand 
an answer—what right had life to impose such misery? 
What right? 

It was the look that humans have at times when death or 
agony wrings them—what does it mean? 

Austen, as he gazed at the little body, limp, lifeless, but 
with that look frozen in its eyes, thought of Mary Carlin, 
and his heart grew heavy within him. He had been banking 
upon her living death! With her trapped he had dared to 
feel free. 

“You are dead—I am alive!” he thought. “I cannot 


112 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


speak evil of the dead.” The black shadow of his life once 
more crushed him. He was not free; not even in thought., 

“Come, Barney, come,” Constance shuddered. 

They passed into the shade of the woods, and still Austen 
did not speak. 

“Until death do you part.” The hard metallic words fell 
into the silence as if both he and the woman beside him were 
chanting them. 

Austen understood the reaction to his words and bitterly 
smiled. Had he, in the past, come to her, scarred, she could 
have forgiven, but having come bound by vows, set him be¬ 
yond her pale! How undying some superstitions are with 
some souls! 

“Poor Barney!” 

Austen looked up quickly. Constance was trying to bat- 
' ter down the dividing wall; the effort touched him; he made 
a desperate stride toward her. 

“There was a child.” He thrust the words into the silence. 

“Yours, Barney?” She would not retreat now! 

“Yes, but I did not believe that until a short time ago— 
a few years ago.” 

“She—your wife—made you believe that the child was not 
yours?” A trembling horror shook the words. 

“Yes. Her love for the child made her lie—to keep it. 
Lie as—as such women rarely lie.” 

Such women! Curiously enough Constance was able to 
draw a freer breath. Suck women! Marriage could not 
always sanctify. She had learned that. She looked up with 
a smile. 

“And now, Barney?” She was trusting him once more. 

“The child is with me. When I knew, I accepted her. 
She is at school.” 

“Oh, Barney, how God must have loved you. But it 
would be like you.” 

“Stop, Constance, stop. I cannot stand such words. You 
must help me; not weaken me. If I am to see this through, 
you must help me. I came for this help.” 

At that moment he believed that he had. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


lI 3 

“l will help, Barney. I will, as I can. How can I?” 

She is lovely, Constance. She looks like, well, one of 
these delicate hemlocks”—Austen paused near one and 
smiled—“bending and sweet, but strong. Em sure she’s 
strong, Constance. It is that that troubles me—her strength, 
which she lays on the altar of her loyalty to me.” 

“She knows that you are her father?” 

“No, Constance. She calls me Barney. You see, I urged 
that. She thinks me her mother’s friend and legal adviser. 
She believes I am managing her property. She has only a 
beautiful memory of her mother—she has not seen her for 
years. I—I cannot take that from her.” 

“Barney, Barney!” Constance’s words had a steely ring. 
“And now you are trying to play God. My dear, it is a haz¬ 
ardous undertaking. In your—your ignorance, Barney, you 
are cheating this young girl out of what belongs divinely to 
her. Her father! The truth , the truth even if it cuts to her 
heart—she has the right to truth.” 

The words flashed out defiantly. They escaped the con¬ 
trol of the woman who had tried to play the role of God her¬ 
self. 

“It is the greatest wrong one can do another, this cheating 
of a soul of what is its own.” 

“But how can we tell what is one’s own, Constance?” 

“And because we cannot, how dare we-” Constance 

paused, her face flushed and paled. Then she said more 
quietly: 

“In permitting this girl to keep her dreams of her mother, 
you deprive her of her father; of you! Oh, Barney, how 
young, young you must have been when this all happened.” 

“I was.” Then, with an effort: “What I could not 
ask for myself, Constance, I ask for this child. She needs 
a woman. Will you be her friend?” 

Then Constance turned and laid her hands on Austen’s 
shoulders. She was trembling but her eyes were steady. 

“Her friend and yours. Oh, Barney, do not let me cry! 
I want to be helpful—not pitiful. How you have suffered! 
And never a word of complaint—just going on; going on.” 



SMOTHERED FIRES 


114 

“That was the only possible thing to do—to do now. 
Just go on!” 

“And this young girl—send her to me, Barney. I want 
to know her, love her, make her love me, if I can. What is 
her name?” 

“Verity. Verity Leighton. That was my mother’s 
name.” 

“Verity. Verity. What a beautiful name! Let her 
come to visit me; after I know her I will try to help you with 
her, Barney. But this I say now: you and I dare not keep her 
behind closed doors. When she knocks, at least we must opern 
them to her. It is terrible to shroud her in dead, cold 
lies.” 

- Constance lifted her tear-wet face to Austen and gave her 
‘brave smile. She had drifted far from her own life and his: 
she was with him in the life of another. 

He looked at her, hesitated, and then took her hands from 
his shoulders and held them. 

“Just for a moment,” he whispered. “We are both so 
tired.” 

Her hands lay quite still; her face never flinched as her 
eyes met his. 

“I am rested now, Barney,” she said at last. 

“And I. We can go on, go on, Constance, from here.” 

They had made their compromise. His past and hers lay, 
and must continue to lie, for the present, quiescent; leaving 
it, they could go on—and together! A backward look might 
shatter whatever of peace and happiness they might achieve. 
They must not look back! 

They had this in common: something held them to their 
course. They could not do otherwise but go on, but they 
could reach out and touch each other bravely if they kept to 
the faith within them; but that faith must remain unshaken. 

That had their inheritance done for them. They had seen 
the Promised Land from their hilltop, but they were among 
those who could not enter in! 


CHAPTER XI 


A USTEN did not return to Five Winds. He left 
r\ Constance at the foot of the hill. 

X “ I suppose there are times/* he said,“ when the best 

of us are driven like chaff before Fate. I could not have 
told you why I came to Coverly after all these years. I was 
utterly at sea, but I leave feeling that I was well guided. No¬ 
where else could I have found what I have found here.” 

“Perhaps you found what you left, Barney.” 

“Hardly that; but something that is worth everything to 
me: a friend.” 

“And you will send Verity to me?”—hastily. 

“At her next vacation, and I shall abide by your decision, 
after you know her.” 

“Even to the taking away of her mother?” 

“Yes.” 

“And the giving to her of her father?” 

“Yes, even that. But I fear I must find her father first. 
The tie between us, Constance, seems not the legitimate one.” 

And by that Constance estimated the hurt of Austen’s 
early life. 

That night the storm came down under Spread Eagle’s 
wings and beat upon Coverly. It tore the crimson mantles 
from the trees; it strewed the earth with shining red and gold. 

Sitting by the fire, at the Goodalls’, Austen watched the 
cwo old people—Jonas sound asleep on his side of the invisible 
line; Nancy, knitting, rocking, and twittering, on hers. 

“I’m sad at heart, son, to have you leave,” she said, and 
then counted her stitches. 

“I shall be coming back soon.” They spoke in whispers. 
Nancy raised her eyes. 


n6 SMOTHERED FIRES 

“I am sending a client’s little daughter to Five Winds,” 
he added. 

The explanation was awkward, for all its apparent sim¬ 
plicity. 

“A what?” Nancy dropped three stitches. 

“A young girl who has been left to my care. Constance 
has invited her.” 

“And a perfect Godsend, if you ask me, Barney Austen. 
What that woman up at Five Winds needs more than any¬ 
thing, except God’s mercy, is something to play with and 
serve. She never had a girl friend and it don’t look as if she 
was ever going to have a chick of her own. I’m terrible glad, 
Barney, but it staggers me how you came to think of Five 
Winds. Now Fd be the more natural thought, though I am 
old and unfit. I reckon you got your leadings right, son. 
I’m terrible glad, though I am struck all in a heap. Is 
it part of your job, Barney, looking after other folks’ chil¬ 
dren?” 

“Yes. It is decidedly part of my job.” 

“It must be considerable nervous work at times.” 

“It is. That’s why I ran up here.” 

“Oh, so that was it!” Was it relief or doubt that rang in 
the quiet voice? 

A silence fell in the warm, dim room, a silence that boded 
no good; so Austen rushed to the fore with a seemingly sense¬ 
less question: 

“Aunt Nancy, are you happy?’ 

The query was not as footless as it seemed, for Austen had 
been gravely considering phases of life among the hills that 
rarely entered his consciousness in his crowded, busy city life 
and he was seeking solace for himself. 

“Well, now, son, that is, as is. We New Englanders learn 
to scrape along with less summer and more biting cold than 
some folks, and maybe we get a keener joy out of what we do 
get. I don’t know. Happiness is a gift of God, I reckon, and 
we don’t have any tie-up to what you might think.” 

“I begin to see”—Austen smiled—“why your mouth has 
an upward turn and your eyes a twinkle.” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 117 

Nancy chirped—a sound she made when speech was 
difficult. 

“Has it paid, Aunt Nancy?” These two could compass 
mighty areas without words. 

Austen glanced searchingly at Jonas. 

“I don’t know as I ever expected to be paid, son. You are 
thinking of Jonas, now?” 

Austen was. Of Jonas and what Jonas represented: lack 
of appreciation; indifference; constant care; the sordidness 
of life. 

“Well, perhaps a little,” he said, and turned his eyes away. 

“Barney, when we take what we must, to get what we want, 
and then the thing we get is taken from us, it don’t seem to me 
to relieve us of the duty we owe to that which we took to gain 
our ends.” 

“I am afraid I do not understand, Aunt Nancy, and I want 
to, very much.” 

Nancy rocked peacefully and sought for words to reach the 
need she saw. When people came to her, as Austen always 
had, she searched her experience and faith, as one might a 
treasure chest, in order to supply the demand. 

“Well, Barney, Jonas was what I took to gain my ends. I 
was just a woman, but a plain one; one without the taking 
ways of most. I had small choice. I sometimes wonder 
why the Almighty doesn’t put it in the hearts of men to pity 
the women that want and want the right and precious things 
of life but have to wait until some man offers to help them out. 
Men don’t pity such women, they laugh at ’em. I wanted 
a home—a home to share, not just to bide in. I wanted to 
serve, early and late—just lovingly serve. I was terrible 
keen about that. I wanted children. I was far-reaching, 
Barney, but I never could grasp and hold. I was a poor, 
longing critter waiting for some man to help me out, and not 
one turned to look at me, because I lacked the charm that 
don’t always count in the long run. Then I set my eyes on 
Jonas. He belonged to a family whose roots were about the 
best of it—all buried and rotting, but giving a kind of life to 
the shoots. Jonas was drinking himself to death and taking 


n8 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


after women scandalous; all his property was gone but this 
place, and this was going under the hammer. I just shut my 
eyes and lips and made a solemn bargain with the Lord. I’d 
take Jonas, buy him as he was, and as I knew, Barney, none 
better. It was a bargain. I set in to make a home here, 
among Jonas’s dead folks and all that they had held sacred— 
a sharing home. Jonas has shared always, maybe not in my 
way, but shared. He’d miss me. He’s got used to me, and 
under his complaining I feel the need he has of me. I keep 
him clean and well fed. For the most part I keep him from 
the tavern, and the women side with me against Jonas, when 
it comes to taking sides. I had my children, two of them, 
Barney. I had the feel of them, the understanding of them; 
then God pried my arms apart and took ’em and I nigh let 
everything drop, but somehow the Lord folded my arms 
again and I found that they wasn’t empty. There was still 
Jonas to look after; he was what I bargained for, and I couldn’t 
throw him over to suit my whim. When all’s said and done, 
a bargain with the Lord is a bargain. I got to know a certain 
joy in keeping Jonas out of mischief and making something 
of him. He’s my child, and if I must often be stern and 
often provoked, still there are times when I shake with laugh¬ 
ter at him. In spite of everything, he holds to me. Barney, 
in the end, I guess there ain’t any form of happiness equal to 
hearing the ‘well done good and faithful’ said to you by the 
thing in you that must be satisfied.” 

“I suppose not.” Austen’s face was grave. “Excuses 
and explanations can never obtain what you have. Aunt 
Nancy, when it comes, as you say, to facing whatever stands 
for rightness in us.” They had long since forgot Jonas! 

“No. That’s God-truth, son. Maybe it’s satisfaction, 
I don’t know—only nothing else equals it.” 

Austen rose and went close to Nancy. He bent over and 
touched her shining silvered head with* his lips. 

“You see, I never had a mother I could remember,” he 
whispered. “But I know what a mother means.” 

“Yes. And having my babies made me know the needs of 
such as you, Barney. I never look a happening in the mouth 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


119 

any more than one does a gift horse. I take it and gallop 
about on it and see a smart piece of life and get a good deal 
of excitement, one way or another. I ain’t borrowing trouble 
about Five Winds Farm, but I’m keeping my eye and heart 
on it. I ain’t worrying none about you, but I’m here, Barney, 
when you call. I sense that you and Constance, too, just 
couldn’t cheat yerselves—and for the rest, that’s God’s busi¬ 
ness.” 

“Cheat ourselves?” Austen started. 

“Yes. Some folks can, when the game is up.” The keen 
old eyes did not flinch. Nancy Goodall, when it came to 
helping another, demanded, and gave, simple truth. “I 
sense how it is with you two, son. I had my suspicions long 
ago. What druv you two asunder don’t matter. You are 
asunder and you can’t, being what you both are, mend mat¬ 
ters by loose thinking and methods. You had to come and 
make the test. I’ve alias held,” the firm voice talked on, 
“that unless you know you can look each other in the eyes, 
faithful-like to the end, there’s no use patching up a bad job 
for a spell. It don’t last. Take courage for your friend, son. 
There ain’t nothing to equal it. In the face of seeming defeat, 
it often leads straight to victory—a clean one.” 

Austen’s voice shook as he said: “You’ll have an eye on 
this young girl I am sending, Aunt Nancy?” 

Nancy drew a sigh and gave a smile. “That’s what 
I’m here for, son, with my eyes. Just to look about. The 
stretching of my eyesight has made it mighty strong.” 

Jonas snored, stirred and grunted, then emitted one of his 
sharp remarks that made one wonder. 

“I alias have held that ministers and lawyer fellows was 
like the rest of mankind, mighty keen about returns when 
they’re doling out the milk of human kindness. What’s 
this about Nancy keeping her eyes on something?” 

“Jonas, ain’t anything sacred from your joking?” Nancy 
peered over her glasses; at times Jonas came only within her 
far vision. 

“Not much, Nancy, not much,” and Jonas chuckled wick¬ 
edly. 


120 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


All during the night Austen woke and slept fitfully. He 
seemed to rest most when sleep deserted him, for when he 
slept he dreamed; while he lay awake he was conscious of 
arriving, without thought, at conclusions. 

It was like being carried through tunnels and coming, now 
and then, upon vistas of clear vision. So sharp and short 
were these periods of illumination that they were startling. 

He knew, for instance, that Constance Maynard was hold¬ 
ing sternly to duty with all her inheritance of pride and hon¬ 
our. He knew that that same force had held him through the 
years. He had never understood before. In common, he and 
Constance knew this power, and it would probably be the 
death of all that they passionately desired; but in the face of 
that possible disaster there was a grim sense of peace and 
'satisfaction. They were not compromising a birthright. 
This force was what sent martyrs to the stake smiling. It 
could not be ignored. 

Because many could compromise, the race had lost much. 
So Austen tried to find comfort for himself. There was a 
good deal to say for the upholding of principles, even though 
they demanded self-sacrifice. Cold comfort, but it brought 
peace. 

To be obliged to defend one’s rights at the bar of justice 
is, as each soul knows, wasted time, if happiness is at stake. 
Then like a flash it came to Austen that the only thing that 
counted, the only thing that brought rest and real happiness, 
was the commendation of that which held part in every soul, 
though often it was spurned and set aside. Nancy was right. 
It was the individual inheritance of conscience. 

And then, as day was breaking, Austen thought of Con¬ 
stance, Verity, and himself—a little, groping, reacting group; 
and overcasting them like a cloud were Vance Warren and 
Mary Carlin! 

Rights or no rights, demands or renunciations, do what 
they might, they must, Constance, Verity, and he, emerge from 
the clouds, if that might be, without compromise. This he 
realized in the depths of his soul. Better to live for ever in 
the shadow than to- And suddenly, as such things wfill 



SMOTHERED FIRES 


121 


materialize, before Austen’s sleepless gaze came the memory 
of that dead rabbit on the trail with the frozen question in 
its eyes, and Mary Carlin at the bar of man’s justice! Her 
eyes had held that eternal question: and he, a judge of men, 
by the grace of God, must not spare himself! 

“Why are things as they are? Why?” 

At daybreak Austen gladly got up and faced the next turn 
in his road. “We can never explain why we do and think 
as we do. We simply musty” he muttered. 

He was accepting the fact that Constance must go on with 
Warren. That he must go on as long as Mary Carlin lived. 
They were as they were, he and Constance, and that is why 
they had inevitably come together again. They had to prove 
themselves. They were going in the same direction; their 
roads might touch, they might cross, but they must be 
guarded. 

As Austen neared New York, he gathered, like a dropped 
robe, his old self about the detached personality he had 
found among the hills. In an impatient moment he shrugged 
his shoulders at what he termed his sentimentality. Busi¬ 
ness, however, restored an equilibrium and Lewis’s abounding 
cheerfulness and cordial welcome were reassuring. This 
case and that awaited his immediate attention. They had 
been pushed aside as long as possible. 

“And you certainly look up to snuff,” Lewis remarked. 
“Do any shooting?” 

“No.” 

“ Didn’t you ? What in thunder did you take to the woods 
for at this time of year?” 

“It’s the best time in the hills,” Austen replied. 

“Well, it’s set you up, old man. That’s the main thing.” 

Austen feared, as the evening wore on, that Lewis might 
refer to Verity and his new relation to her, but he did not. 
“It would be embarrassing,” he thought, “to have a lien on 
her before everything was set clear.” 

Austen had not counted upon this. It was as if Lewis 
were bidding without knowing what he was bidding for. 
“There is no estimating the confusion one causes,” Austin re- 


122 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


fleeted, smoking, and eyeing Lewis through the screen, “when 
he works under cover.” 

After a long, awkward pause, Austen struck the blow he 
dreaded that Lewis might strike. 

“Ted.” 

“Yep, Barney.” 

“About that matter of which you spoke—Verity, you 
know.” Since Lewis would not speak, he must. He, now, 
resented Lewis’s silence. 

“Yes.” 

“I do not want you to misunderstand me, old fellow, but 
I hope you will let it lie fallow for a time. There’s your 
family-” 

“Damn!” muttered Lewis genially. 

“That’s all right, Ted, but they have their rights. Besides, 
I want Verity to find herself. When the time comes for her to 
give herself, I want her to know what she’s giving. She 
doesn’t, now. She’s got a rather tangled past, as I’ve told 
you. I’m going to untangle some of it, and then-” 

“Thanks, old man.” Lewis blinked in the smoke. “All I 
wanted you to know was the plain fact. Nothing can ever al¬ 
ter that , but I wanted you in at the start. I may not get her 
—I’m not the kind of ass that overlooks that—but I’m going 
to try some day.” 

“And Verity?” Austen looked keenly at Lewis. 

“Oh, she doesn’t suspect. She’s right on her own trail 
now, working for her goal. When she arrives I’ll be there. 
That’s all.” 

Another pause. Then: 

“Ted, I want to tell you a little about where I’ve been 
and why.” Then, haltingly, feeling his way, Austen spoke. 

For a long time Lewis did not interrupt the quiet flow of 
Austen’s words. Once he asked: “Why in thunder didn’t 
you tell her that you cared long ago? Why, in God’s name, 
did you let the old man steer your course? That was your 
big mistake.” 

“I could not. I was not free, you see.” 

With lightning rapidity Lewis made a mad calculation, 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


123 


then discarded it. He was linking Verity with Austen! “No! 
At that time I was wedging into Barney’s life. I would have 
known,” he concluded. “But a woman’s in Barney’s life, 
all right!” 

“You see,” Austen was speaking calmly, “I’m made that 
way. I simply couldn’t. If I could have got away with it, 
been happy, felt respectable, I would have done it in a minute. 
Many men could have justified themselves. I couldn’t. 
That was all.” 

“A woman, I suppose,” ventured Lewis, “who couldn’t be 
got rid of?” 

“Yes, a woman who clung.” 

Then Lewis, regarding Austen, seemed to see him take on 
new proportions, new significance. He could not follow him 
through his valleys of humiliation and dogged perseverance, 
but he could see him on the summits he had gained—and 
relinquished. His heart ached, but with characteristic fer¬ 
vour he said: 

“You won’t mind, Barney, I know, but I think you were a 
damned fool. No woman has a right to drag a man at her 
heels.” 

“Perhaps. As I said, if I could have done otherwise, I 
would have. I simply couldn’t. I’m not claiming any virtue.” 

“And after all these years, finding yourself free, you 
wxnt”—Lewis was appropriating heights he had no rights to 
—“and found the woman you cared for-” 

“Married.” Austen finished the question with a sharp 
answer. 

He had no intention of sharing any further confidence. 
That was his way. 

He could open the dam that held his secrets; he could 
permit a certain intimacy to flow forth, and then, as now hap¬ 
pened, almost with brutal abruptness, the gates of silence fell. 

“Lord!” thought Lewis, beating against the barrier. “I 
don’t feel as if I ever knew Barney.” 

And that was a correct conclusion. 


CHAPTER XII 


L IFE again settled into what Lewis termed prehistoric ruts. 

Business became absorbing and Austen plunged into 
-'several civic interests with the ardour of his early years. 
He desired above all else to fill his time and work off his 
energy to some purpose. He and Lewis often dined together, 
and it was curious to note how intimate they became with 
so little to justify the relation except faith and a growing 
affection. 

Austen wrote often and at length to Verity. He was sur- 
facely extremely frank about his Coverly visit. He re¬ 
ferred to Constance as an old and valued friend “recently 
returned from abroad” and dwelt upon the pleasure it would 
give him to have Verity know her and become attached to her. 

“I have promised her that you will visit her when next 
you come home,” he added. 

She wrote in reply, with the lack of filial tone that amused 
and daunted Austen: 

That’s plain cheek, Barney. I may want to go elsewhere. I’m 
making contacts of my own. You need not feel, in order to rid 
yourself of my obnoxious presence [here Austen winced], that you 
must parcel me out to old friends. My special pal at present is 
Jane Terrell, a most fascinating creature with a brother Jack, at 
Yale. The Terrells have a camp in the Adirondacks and Jane 
has intimated to her mother that a standing invitation to me would 
be appreciated. So, Barney dear, don’t have me on your mind! 
As time passes I realize, with shudders, what havoc I must have 
created in your orderly life. Well, that’s that! 

Love to Ted. Why doesn’t he write? 

“Why don’t you?” asked Austen, turning, as he read the 
letter, to Lewis. 


124 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


125 


“Because,” Lewis leered pleasantly, “I wanted to make 
her notice that I did not.” 

An unlooked-for calamity brought Verity home again soon 
after her return to school. 

Scarlet fever broke out among the students, and Verity 
wrote: 

We’re suspicious of each other and of every one else. We are fly¬ 
ing apart like chips from a split log. 

Fm all right so far—got a clean bill of health, but I’ve been think¬ 
ing, Barney, I’d like to reconsider and go up to those hills you men¬ 
tioned in your last letter. That is, if your nice Mrs. Warren isn’t 
panicky about germs. 

Hills! I’ve never had hills in my story. Sea, cities, and flats. I 
think hills might revive me. 

Two girls have died, Barney; two! Pretty, laughing things they 
were. It doesn’t seem possible that they will never laugh again. 
One was going to be a great singer. She had a voice that thrilled 
you. I hope, wherever she is, she’ll be allowed to go on with her 
singing. It would be such a waste. 

“My God!” groaned Lewis after reading the letter Austen 
passed over to him. “What do you make of this?” 

“Only that the girl has been rather roughly brought face 
to face with a grim reality, Ted. She’ll escape disease, I 
believe, but I think we had better pack her off to the hills at 
once. Mrs. Warren is mentally germ-proof and will be the 
best influence in Verity’s life that she could possibly have 
now. I’ll wire her and Verity at once. When Verity ar¬ 
rives we’ll meet her at the Grand Central and put her on the 
Vermont special at midnight.” 

“Lord, Barney, it sounds indecent! Like the way they 
smuggle dangerous objects through.” 

“ It’s best, Ted. We’re not the right ones for her now. Be¬ 
sides, while she longs for the hills, she had better have them.” 

Verity arrived in New York late one December day, and 
was met by Austen and Lewis. She was pale and sad-eyed. 
She did not seem to resent her brief stay in the city. She was 
mentally at low ebb and regarded everything indifferently. 


126 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


She brightened a little at dinner and at the play later— 
for Austen had planned to fill every moment of her stay with 
entertainment. 

“You’ve aged,” Lewis said, looking keenly at her. This 
was unfortunate. Her eyes filled. 

“I suppose so,” she replied. “I’ve been through things 
that do age one. Somehow, Ted, I didn’t know it could 
happen to happy, well girls. It doesn’t seem fair.” 

“I didn’t mean that, Verity.” Lewis looked penitent. 
“Only you seem so grown up.” 

“Well, I am, Ted. I suppose I’ll never be growner!” 
She smiled faintly. 

The night on the train was a restful one and had the effect 
of restoring Verity to something like her old self. She ate a 
good breakfast and faced the future with greater interest 
than she would have believed possible the day before. So 
much had occurred during the last ten days that she had been 
stunned; but she was emerging, and the fact surprised hef 

“There’s not much to me, I’m afraid,” she thought. v '~ I 
get over things too easily.” 

She tried to escape from the sense of cheerful anticipation 
that rose in spite of her, but could not. She tried to feel 
some resentment for the way she had been rushed through 
New York, but presently she laughed aloud. 

“They looked so up against a problem,” she thought, “poor 
Barney and Ted, bucking each other up and hustling me away 
as if they were afraid I might find them out.” 

It was after four o’clock when the train drew into the 
Coverly Station. Verity, with her trunk beside her and her 
suitcase clutched in her left hand, stood dismayed. 

There was no one to meet her! But just when dismay was 
giving place to indignation and fear, an automobile dashed up 
and a man jumped out, swept Verity and her belongings into 
the car, and headed it for the hills with a gruff remark about 
“busted tire at the wrong time.” Presently, with the broad 
road before him, he grew more communicative. 

“Mrs. Warren was detained. You’re to feel like one of the 
family.” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


127 

Verity, her eyes widening, smiled. It was funny, but 
rather nice, too, this idea of being one of the family and 
treated casually. 

And then she saw the hills. To sea-level eyes they 
seemed majestic, those tender, brooding hills of Vermont. 
Verity gasped. There is always one of two impressions that 
grips one at the first sight of mountains. Either they seem to 
smother, to awe and humble, or they seem to lift one up, by a 
tender and mighty force, to peace and vision. It was in the 
latter way that the hills affected Verity. As she gazed at 
Spread Eagle and the other peaks, she was conscious of an 
emotion that never before had swayed her; a new chord had 
been touched and it sang in her like a call. 

“Oh!” she whispered over and over. “Oh!” Then, un¬ 
able longer to keep silent, she leaned over to the man at the 
wheel and touched him. 

“Are we going into the hills?” she asked. 

The man turned understanding eyes upon her. A moun¬ 
taineer knows his kin. 

“Want to?” he asked. 

“Oh! I want to get near them. They are beautiful, they 
reach so—and touch.” 

“We’re going ’mong them,” was the calm reply. 

“I’m glad.” Verity leaned back, feeling as one might who 
was nearing home. 

“It’s queer!” she pondered, and suddenly she thought of 
old Ezra. Thought of him as she had not for many a day. 
The tears came smartingly to her eyes; her heart yearned 
and she whispered as if repeating a prayer: “The havens 
where they would be.” Where they would be! Her glance 
clung to the hills. 

At Five Winds another surprise awaited Verity, but it gave 
her less shock. She was met at the door by a trim, elderly 
woman and led toward the stairs. How still and beautiful 
and warm the house was, and how empty! It was like being 
in a new world and wondering if there were other inhabitants 
to be found later. Verity paused midway and looked about. 

Off in the soft, warm brightness someone was playing a 


128 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


violin, and now and then a voice sang a few words and then it 
trailed off into the violin’s notes. 

“Mrs. Warren wants you to rest and then come down¬ 
stairs when you are ready,” the woman was saying. “It 
is five o’clock now. Dinner will be served at seven, but 
Mrs. Warren will be here”—the woman pointed to the 
fireside in the living hall—“at six.” 

It was all very strange and unusual, but Verity nodded 
bravely and followed on. “People, people!” she sighed, 
“and their ways!” 

Her bedroom was like a mute welcome. Someone had 
been thoughtful and kind there. Such a merry, clean little 
fire crackled on the hearth; such a comfortable chair was 
drawn close to it, and there were pretty quilted slippers and 
a soft gown of blue near by. No need to wait for one’s trunk, 
here. Candles were flickering cheerfully in quaint brass on 
dresser and table, and there was a jar of ground pine and 
scarlet berries on the stand by the bed. 

Feeling suddenly very old and wise and well poised, Verity 
drew her breath sharply and was grateful for the opportunity 
to get ready. She took off her travelling clothes, donned the 
dressing gown and slippers, and sank into the friendly chair. 

Presently her trunk and bag were brought, and then she 
was alone once more. She went to the window and looked 
into the blue twilight; she saw the blessed peaks rise pro- 
tectingly on every side. The witchery of the place caught 
and held her as it had long ago caught Austen. All disturb¬ 
ing things were shut away; she was freed from what really 
was of no consequence, things that had seemed so compelling 
off somewhere beyond those friendly hills. She was glad 
without knowing why; simply glad and at peace. 

“I’m not sleepy, not tired, but just glad.” 

After a while she turned, with a little sigh, to her trunk. 
She must make herself ready for that first meeting with 
Barney’s old friend! At once she became concentrated and 
eager as she always was when seeking to meet a demand 
Austen made upon her. 

Womanlike, she selected, religiously, her gown—it might 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


129 


make such difference, that first glimpse. She began to pic¬ 
ture her hostess, her silent, absent, but strangely present 
hostess. 

The gown was decided upon—a pretty, soft blue thing 
edged with dark fur. 

It was nearly six when Verity left the shelter of her room. 
Outside the protecting door she experienced not shyness 
so much as fear. People were often so disappointing, so 
disturbing; and this person meant so much. Verity shrank 
from any jar that might menace the marvellous thing the 
hills had given her. 

Noiselessly she passed down the broad hall to the stairway. 
Groping along, as Vance Warren did, but without sound, 
she descended to the first landing and looked over the balus¬ 
trade. Austen had given as little as possible in the way of 
description. Verity knew that Mrs. Warren was young, that 
her husband was delicate—that was all. She looked gravely 
at her hosts now. They had not heard her approach. 

Vance Warren, his wonderful face all aglow in the red 
light, leaned back in a deep chair. Constance sat on a stool 
near him, her hand upon his arm. It was like a beautiful 
scene set and waiting; waiting for the play to go on! 

If Verity had chosen her gown by inspiration, so had Con¬ 
stance. A silvery gray, loose garment enveloped the tall 
slender figure like a mist. At shoulder and waist buckles of 
glimmering stones sparkled. Woman and girl had, uncon¬ 
sciously, vied with each other for effect, and for the same 
reason. 

Suddenly the sweet, dreamy face at the fireside lifted, 
turned toward Verity, and smiled. Long the two looked at 
each other, and as surely as such things can be known, they 
both knew that hereafter their parts would be played close 
together. 

“And this is Verity Leighton!” Constance did not seem 
to move, but when Verity reached the foot of the stairs she 
was there to meet her. “My dear, Barney didn’t tell me 
that you were just like this!” 


i 3 o SMOTHERED FIRES 

“Vance, dear, she has come, Verity Leighton. Verity—my 
husband.” 

“He is a boy!” The thought leaped to consciousness. 
“And blind! Why did Barney keep this from me?” 

For a moment something hurt in the region of Verity’s 
heart. She took Warren’s groping, outstretched hand. 
She murmured something, and then: 

“I wonder,” said Constance as she led Verity to a chair, 
“if Barney Austen’s odd notion about names will hold here? 
You know how he dislikes more than one name apiece for the 
people he cares for? I wish you would call me Constance and 
my husband Vance—it would get us over such a long distance 
without bother. Do you think you could, my dear?” How 
tremulously eager the voice was. 

“I’d like to try.” Verity smiled. 

“Thank God,” Constance was thinking, “she doesn’t look 
like Barney.” 

“What a groping voice,” thought Vance Warren. “A 
blind voice—feeling along.” 

The contact was made! 

Brought together as these three were, emotions were 
developed with hot-house rapidity. It would be that or 
nothing. They all seemed to realize that. 

Almost within the hour Constance found herself in league 
with Austen as to withholding any hurting thing from 
Verity. 

“Not yet!” she thought. “Something is happening to 
the girl, something that any unfavourable blow might 
blight.” 

Vance Warren listened to Verity’s voice; he pictured her, 
as was his lonely custom, starting always with the voice. 

“She is fair; she is going to be beautiful some day if she is 
not now.” He amused himself by his fancy, asking a ques¬ 
tion now and then. 

The tie between Constance and Warren at first daunted 
Verity by its unnaturalness. With the blunt cruelty of youth 
she resented what seemed incongruous. Warren’s sharp wit 
and ironical cheerfulness disarmed her at times, and his very 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


131 

evident affection for Constance was touching. After a few 
days she came to a conclusion. 

“They are making-believe to each other,” she thought. 
“Why? Why did they ever marry?” 

After that, life took on zest and colour; Romance rode a 
wild race and outstripped reason. 

Little by little, as time passed, Verity became part of the 
home life of Five Winds. Nothing disturbed the quiet flow of 
the days, the blessed rest of the nights. Gradually she was 
taken for granted. 

Constance spoke often and affectionately of Austen; she 
disarmed growing suspicion by her simple frankness. 

It would have been so thrilling to associate Constance with 
Barney! Austen’s detachment from women had recently 
caused Verity’s sex stirrings some grave moments; here was 
hope, but hope soon fell. 

“Nothing doing!” The girl smiled quizzically and turned 
her thoughts on the everlasting why that stood hovering over 
Warren and Constance. 

In due time the Goodalls became a charming addition to 
the circle. For some reason Nancy constantly brought Ezra 
to Verity’s thought. 

“They are the same breed,” she mused. “I bet their God 
is the same God.” 

Old Jonas repelled Verity. 

“He’s a menace,” she concluded, “an old vulture.” 

On his part Jonas eyed Verity askance. He had heard 
more than people knew that he had, and it had fed his evil 
tendencies, not his compassion. 

“What does this all mean?” he asked Nancy. 

“I don’t know as that need fash you,” Nancy replied. 
“I reckon we know all there is any reason for us to know. 
I declare, Jonas, there are times when I think you want to 
upset what never was meant to upset.” 

“All the same”—Jonas stuck his bristly chin out stub¬ 
bornly—“I ain’t going to swaller everything that’s jammed 
agin my mouth.” 

“Who’s jamming anything?” Nancy stood at bay. 


132 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“He’s got something on his mind,” she thought. “He’s bent 
on mischief. Now what’s got him—just curiosity about what 
don’t concern him, or the tavern, or women?” 

And, as though drawn by a magnet, or compelled by that 
fell instinct that drives us all to come into contact with an 
obstacle before us, Verity and Warren became constant 
companions. This surprised and interested Constance. 
She had feared that Vance would resent the change in the 
home life, that it might irritate or weary him; but the con¬ 
trary resulted. 

“I—I feel old, left out!” she thought one day, and then 
sharply denounced herself as a jealous fool. 

“Jealous of whom?” This became absorbing. She 
often overheard snatches of conversation between Warren 
and Verity. They were illuminating; startling. 

“You are going to see some day”—it was Verity who 
spoke; she and Warren were in the studio room and Con¬ 
stance chanced to pass by—“at first I thought you were not. 
I’m glad, very glad.” 

“Oh! that’s a hope.” Warren was scribbling, feeling 
ahead with his pencil to the limit of the sheet of paper. 
“And,” cheerfully, “as Aunt Nancy says, hopes ain’t lob¬ 
sters. Lobsters seem to be her final test.” 

“How can you be so light-hearted?” This came wonder- 
ingly; Constance paused outside the door. 

“One has to take everything some way. I choose the 
light-hearted way. It saves time.” 

“Why don’t you get ready?” 

“Ready for what?” 

“Ready for the time when you can see.” 

“I do not understand.” 

“You are afraid of things in the dark—your dark. Some 
of the things are not there, Vance.” This very definitely; 
firmly. 

“For instance?” There was a new tone in Warren’s voice. 
It startled Constance; made her conscious of eavesdropping. 
She walked quickly into the room. The conversation ran 
on. Verity merely smiled a welcome. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


133 


“You could do more things, sort of practise, and then 
when light comes you will not have so much to learn.” She 
nodded to Constance. “Pm bullying him,” she said. 

“When light comes!” The words were like music, full of 
hidden yearning. 

“Yes. You could find your way around this house more; 
do little things for yourself instead of always waiting. You 
could come out with me now, for instance, and walk as if you 
knew everything was safe. Pd tell you if it wasn’t. Walk 
alone, I mean, as if you were not afraid.” 

Warren laughed bitterly. 

“You think I indulge myself?” 

The tone caused Verity to flush. 

“Yes, I do!” she said, courageously. “If you act all 
right people will think you are all right—won’t have you 
on their minds.” 

“Con, do you hear the ragging Pm getting?” Warren 
turned his unseeing eyes toward Constance. He had heard 
her enter. 

“Yes, dear.” 

“Am I on your mind, Con?” 

“Delightfully, Vance.” 

“I dare you to come out walking with me now.” Verity 
tossed her head. 

“I’ll take the dare!” Then: “Con, come along and see 
me walk alone, after all this time.” There was challenge in 
the tone. 

That was the beginning. Day after day, more and more 
as if sight guided him, with the whispered caution of Verity 
or Constance, Warren trod the trails. Oftener and oftener 
his laugh rang without the bitter or mocking indifference. 
He gained weight and colour. 

Constance watched every phase of what was going on. 
She made no demur even when she feared the risks Warren 
was taking. To her, who had brooded over him, believed 
that she was making life secure and happy for him, the 
present atmosphere of cheerful disregard of consequences 
was astounding. 


134 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“What have I been doing all this time?” she thought. 
“It almost seems as if I had been getting him ready to die, 

while in reality I should have-” She paused. Almost 

she resented Verity’s presence for the moment then she grew 
grave. 

In an inexplicable way, she again felt set aside; felt the 
necessity of asserting herself. And yet life, except for this 
new element of youthful spirits, was going on naturally 
enough. It was as if she, as well as Vance, had become con¬ 
scious that some things they had feared were not, after all, in 
the dark. 

Verity’s personality was such that she could not mingle 
with others without attracting or repelling. She was vital, 
positive, with the acquired independence that her life had 
evolved. She had won her way step by step. She might so 
easily, so Constance thought, have been impossible, but 
something had saved her. At Verity’s most daring moment 
she would look at Constance, as she often looked at Austen, 
with an appealing, groping sadness; a sweet loyalty, a reach¬ 
ing out for sympathy. This was disarming and fascinating. 

From the sense of age, Constance drifted eventually to 
an exhilarating sense of youth and high spirits. She did not 
try to analyse this mood: she accepted it. 

When Verity suggested that they all learn to skate, Con¬ 
stance, who had been restrained from even that pastime in 
her girlhood, agreed. 

“We’ll all tumble together,” she pleaded. And tumble 
they did, but conquered in the end, bruised but triumphant. 

The strange course of events was watched by old Jonas 
with sinister amusement; by Nancy with keen relish, for the 
dear soul was as young in spirit as the three who were un¬ 
consciously on the wheel of fate, and she was as unsuspecting 
as they. 

The sense of relief and pleasure that Verity’s presence 
gave still caused Constance at times to pause, in the midst of 
her merriest mood, and consider. Why were things as they 
were? Why was she brighter, happier than she had ever 
been in her life? The questions would recur. 



SMOTHERED FIRES 


135 


She tried to believe that it was because Vance Warren was 
growing stronger and more hopeful. They presently talked 
of the possible operation, of plans to have it performed soon; 
and looked beyond the hours of anxiety to a future of useful¬ 
ness and purpose. 

It was pleasant to bask in Verity’s youth and high 
spirits. She had seemed to come in with the turning of the 
tide. But there were hours when Constance was sternly 
honest with herself, and then she acknowledged that, in 
Verity, she shared Austen. The girl was a blessed tie that 
held her in all honour—in all honour, yes!—to Austen. 

And the preparations went on! 

For what? She could hardly have told, except that they 
planned for the operation. But Constance knew that her 
life had taken a new turn, that never again w’ould it be the 
same. She wrote to Austen what she felt about Verity. 
The time had not come to tell her that her dreams were but 
dreams. 

Let her learn, Barney, the difference between sawdust and flesh 
and blood. When she has learned, she will insist upon the latter. 
It’s odd, but since she has come into my life, I feel as if a pendulum 
swung between us. I touch her; she touches me—by the unseen 
medium. We understand each other! 

Austen pondered over this letter and found deep satisfac¬ 
tion in it. 

When March came, Verity made her plans to return to 
school. The months had brought her health and happiness, 
given her a wider vision, a surer foothold. 

“I have a belonging feeling,” she confided to Constance, 
but laughingly refused to explain. 


CHAPTER XIII 


J UST before Verity arrived, Lewis passed through an 
experience that had the effect of driving him, like a 
living wedge, into the lives that heretofore he had but 
touched superficially; how superficially, he had never 
imagined until then. 

He had, ever since Mary Carlin’s sentence, sought, as op¬ 
portunity offered, to get for her a pardon. Of late his efforts 
had met with indifference or actual rebuff, and because he 
could carry no good news to the wretched woman, he had not 
been to see her for months, nor spoken of her to Austen. His 
visits, at the best, had been doleful affairs and were made in 
Austen’s interest. 

Suddenly, out of the silence, came papers, properly exe¬ 
cuted, that gave Mary Carlin release! 

Lewis was taken aback, and at first decided to lay the 
matter at once before Austen, but upon second thought con¬ 
cluded not to. Why should he? Austen was, at the moment, 
engaged upon some critical cases; had several important 
transactions under way, and after all there was no immediate 
hurry. The arrangements for Mary Carlin, if there were any 
to be made, could wait until after Verity’s visit and the rush 
of Austen’s business were over. 

With release the woman would be her own mistress, but 
Lewis, after a few hours’ thought, decided to offer her what 
assistance she might feel like accepting from him until such 
time as Austen could be consulted. 

Undoubtedly money questions would arise; in the mean¬ 
time, he could bring the woman to the city, place her in a 
quiet hotel, have a nurse for her, if that were necessary, and 
when Austen was more at leisure he could act as he saw fit. 
There was still a goodly sum of money in the bank. 

136 



SMOTHERED FIRES 


137 


This seemed the feasible thing to do, and Lewis secured a 
suite of rooms in a family hotel; engaged a cheerful young 
undergraduate nurse to attend “an invalid” when she ar¬ 
rived in New York, and then set forth, with the official papers 
in his pocket, to break the good news to Mary Carlin. 

It was months since he had been to the prison. Dur¬ 
ing that time the wretched woman had sent him two or three 
short notes. He recalled their import now with a sense of 
neglected duty. In one she had written: 

I cannot seem to die. I am better again. Able to help in the 
infirmary. Thanks to your interest, I am given this work to do. 

Again—and this was the nearest the woman had ever 
come to the personal: 

You seem to be the only link between my living death and life. 

“I wish,” Lewis reflected as he neared his destination, 
“that I had been more considerate.” 

He found Mary Carlin on her narrow bed in the infirmary. 
Another spell of illness had left her weak and hopeless. In 
her eyes was the dumb, pathetic look of the beaten. The 
eternal question of Why , why? to which the soul expected no 
answer. 

She had won for herself, during her confinement, the sym¬ 
pathy and liking of those in authority. She gave no trouble; 
took what came with indifferent cheerfulness; rarely talked 
to others, but was always ready to respond to any demand. 

When Lewis entered the ward, he at once saw Mary Carlin 
propped up on pillows. With relief in sight he seemed to 
understand, as he never had before, how terrible the ordeal 
must have been to her. She was tragically changed—not by 
illness alone, but by experiences of loneliness, a sense of dis¬ 
grace and utter despair. 

They had told Mary Carlin that Lewis was coming, and she 
had been watching for him. She knew the train schedule. 
If he did not come at ten, he might come at one. Failing that. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


138 

he could not reach the prison until four. By that time the 
sun would be streaming in through the window at the foot 
of her bed. The sun meant so much in that drear place. 

At three-thirty Mary Carlin had fallen asleep, her scarred 
face turned to the wall, her thin hands spread so that the 
sunlight would warm them when it reached them. 

And then suddenly the head turned. There was a radiant 
warmth in the eyes that had been looking at dreams. 

“Oh!” Lewis, sitting by the bed, seemed part of the van¬ 
ishing dream. “Oh! I had forgot!” 

Lewis bent closer. “That I was coming?” he asked. 

“No. I knew that you would come. I had forgot that I 
could not go! It’s queer, that forgetting dream. It wipes 
everything out, and sometimes I get up still forgetting, and 
' do not wake up until I fall against the—the bars.” The 
words broke feverishly, eagerly—she had been so ner¬ 
vous. 

Lewis shuddered. “You are feeling better?” he asked. 

“I’m afraid so. I’ve got to longing for the forgetting that 
cannot be stopped by bars.” A certain delicacy which Lewis 
had never observed before marked the woman. A rough sob 
shook the thin form and a hovering nurse drew near. 

“If you get excited,” she warned, “you’ll have to be let 
alone.” 

“I’m not excited.” The words mumbled along between 
the chattering teeth. 

“See you ain’t!” The nurse passed on. 

“You want to be free?” Lewis asked gently. 

“Who doesn’t? Just keeping us from being free is hell 
enough. I lie here and think of the time when they can’t 
stop me—when I’ll have escaped them.” 

“Mary Carlin, what would you do with freedom?” 

“I do not know. Who does? Freedom looks one way 
when you are part of it, quite another when you are barred 
from it.” A weak laugh followed the words. 

“Mrs. Carlin”—Lewis was afraid of shock—“I have in my 
pocket the order that will release you.” 

Shock may rouse one to action, or it may act like an anaes- 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


139 


thetic. Mary Carlin closed her eyes and her thin face took 
on the hue of death. 

“Do you hear me? Do you understand?” Lewis whis¬ 
pered. He, too, was afraid of the nurse. 

“Yes.” The breath was short and quick as if the woman 
were running; escaping. 

“I have made arrangements to have you come to the city 
at once. I have rooms in a quiet hotel—but would you pre¬ 
fer a hospital?” 

“No, no, not that. Once I am free, I can manage. My 
friend-■” 

Excitement was flushing the thin face now and the eyes 
that would for ever hold their beauty looked full upon Lewis. 

“Good God!” Mary Carlin breathed. “Freedom! A 

chance-” Then almost fiercely drawing Lewis close, she 

went on: “It’s like rising from the grave. You asked me 
what I would do with freedom. I will have to decide.” 

“Yes; and I may be able to help you.” Lewis was deeply 
moved, but Mary Carlin’s next words drove him to a condi¬ 
tion of mind in which thought seemed impossible and only 
primitive instincts held sway. 

“It depends, Mr. Lewis, it depends. Tell me—tell me 
about that young girl who is with Judge Austen. What are 
they going to do with her? What have they done?” 

“What is that to you?” Lewis asked almost fiercely. 
Where had she heard of Austen’s affairs? Why should she 
be interested in Verity Leighton? 

Every sense recoiled at the seemingly impertinent curiosity, 
and yet when Lewis spoke it was more gently, more as if he 
were propitiating the woman. He suddenly felt that what¬ 
ever hold she might have upon Austen’s generous nature it 
might become an impossible burden once she was free. With 
Austen’s peace and comfort in his mind he spoke with little 
consideration but great audacity. He ignored her question. 

“You say you must arrange your own plans, Mrs. Carlin, 
upon your release, but only within certain limits. You must 
promise to go away.” 

The woman raised herself from the pillow. “Go away?” 




140 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


she moaned, and fright, positive horror, shook the voice. It 
was as if she had received a death sentence. “How can I go 
away? Where can I go? Why must I go away? You say 
they are to set me free. How can you, any one, prevent 
my going where I please?” 

Lewis bent closer and spoke as he might to an excited child. 

“There will be money. You could go to England. I have 
power to withhold your release.” Lewis was driven on by a 
fear that he could not classify. “There is just one way, Mrs. 
Carlin, for you to obtain your freedom. Consider it.” 

Lewis was not thinking, he was simply seeking to push 
aside a dangerous obstacle; clear the way of a menace that he 
did not pause to understand. Mary Carlin’s question had 
created a panic in him. Was she contemplating a hold upon 
Austen? Did she intend, because of any old tie, to demand 
service that would hamper and humiliate him? If there was 
anything Lewis could do to avert that, he meant to do it while 
there was time. He took big chances, relying upon Mary 
Carlin’s ignorance and desire for freedom. Better terms 
could be made now than later. Austen must not be throt¬ 
tled. This “case” must at last be brought to a definite close. 

“Is this another sentence of Judge Austen’s?” 

The words roused Lewis anew. Again he took a chance. 

“Yes,” he said, tersely, and watched the gray shadow steal 
over the thin, drawn face. 

There was not much time now and the hovering nurse 
might swoop down at any moment. At the present instant 
she was quieting a rebellious patient in the next room by 
threats of a strait-jacket. 

A flame was succeeding the shadow on Mary Carlin’s face, 
leaving the scar white and shrivelled. What she had to say 
she must say as one hurls a missile bearing a message, un¬ 
mindful where it strikes or how it may stun. She dared not 
think of Austen nor what the man beside her might think. 
She must speak. 

“If I must go, I must see her—just once; just once. In 
God’s name, do not deny me! You are young enough to have 
mercy.” Poor Mary Carlin, if she had ever considered the 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


141 

matter at all, believed that Lewis, at least, had Austen’s 
confidence. 

“See whom?” Lewis bent toward the bed. For an in¬ 
stant he had forgot the earlier question. 

“The—the child that Judge Austen has. Verity Leighton. 
She is mine! Mine!” 

“Are you mad?” Lewis shivered as one does who has 
been drenched with icy water. But the shock saved him from 
much. 

“No. When I thought I was dying, it seemed easy to give 
her up. But if I must live and go—go away for ever, I must 
see her before I go.” 

Mechanically, Lewis took out his watch. Only twenty 
minutes more. He could think later—there would be years 
for that—he must act now and take no more chances. He 
must act! 

“If what you say is true,” he whispered, snapping his 
watch case, “can’t you see that to interfere now would be 
brutal?” If the woman were sane, this might touch her; if 
she were mad, it might divert her. “When you saw Judge 
Austen and trusted him with—with your child, you must 
have realized what you did.” 

“Yes, but I thought I faced death.” 

“What difference does that make?” Lewis blurted out 
the words and Mary Carlin recoiled from them. 

“Can you not see?” she murmured, and gave a hysterical 
laugh which was smothered in the bedclothes. 

“No. I cannot see. Whatever was your reason for giving 
this girl into Judge Austen’s care, he has accepted her, 
placed her beyond harm—unless you choose to injure her.” 

“Does she know about me?” 

“No. She thinks her mother is dead.” 

The bedclothes were clutched convulsively. 

“Is she happy?” 

“Yes.” Then desperately: “Mary Carlin, you have a 
divine opportunity to preserve the memory of you which this 
young girl has; an opportunity to keep her happy and safe.” 

The paroxysm was passing, leaving the woman on the bed 


142 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


limp and weak. She had abdicated, but she reached forth 
for one grain of comfort upon which to live in all the long— 
or short—years ahead. Lewis had overpowered her. 

“If she did not see me—if I could just look at her, just 
look? If you will permit that, I will promise—as God hears 
me, I promise. Only a look. Just a look.” 

Never in his life had Lewis been so deeply moved. For a 
moment he could not speak. Then he said brokenly: “I 
will try to arrange it. You must be got to New York. I 
will come to you and tell you my plans there.” 

“Thank you. Suppose I cannot get to New York? I am 
so weak.” 

“You will be able to come, I feel sure. I must go now. 
You must trust me and be calm. I will send for you and do 
my best.” Lewis stood up. He seemed to tower over the 
wreck upon the bed. Then he asked huskily—the words 
seemed to escape his will to restrain them: “What is Judge 
Austen to you?” 

The weak face stiffened; a kind of majesty overspread it. 

“Nothing, except that he—he once knew my people. He 
is a good man. He has saved innocent-” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Carlin!” Lewis drew a deep breath. 
“You must not exert yourself. Live for to-morrow. Good¬ 
bye.” 

“To-morrow!” The misery of the word rang in Lewis’s 
ears all the way to New York. 

On the train he relaxed and tried to think. He went to 
the dining car, ate a hearty meal, and went back to his chair; 
tried, again, to think. Presently he fell asleep and awoke 
with a start. 

“Doped!” he called it and with good cause. He slept a 
little more; started and grappled the spectre that was waiting 
for him. At last he could think! 

“If this is true-” he thought. And knew, somehow, 

that it was. “Damn it! Pm an ass. The whole thing may 
be a lie.” 

There was no use to struggle. Lewis knew that it was not 
a lie. By and by, when the shock had passed and he could 




SMOTHERED FIRES 


143 


sift and weigh things, he began to experience personal reac¬ 
tions. Never before had he been so keenly alive to his dual 
nature. All that his inheritance and training had done for 
him recoiled from what he had heard; what it signified. By 
a trick of imagination he saw Verity beside—Mary Carlin! 
“Great God!” he muttered under his breath. 

Then, as vividly, he felt himself—or part of himself—be¬ 
side the two. He could not shake himself free. Beside those 
two he took his stand, pushing Austen aside. Curiously 
enough Austen seemed to play no part in the drama evolving 
in his tortured mind. What did Austen matter? For old 
connections’ sake he had, if this woman’s tale were true, 
rescued Verity. He had done his part—the future had to do 
with Verity and him. He had told Austen that he “would 
be there” when Verity needed him. 

Well, here was the need. Here was he! 

Then, as the train flashed and trailed through the night, 
the wheels seemed to sing, madly, frantically: 

“Delmar! Delmar!” Wheels were diabolically con¬ 
trolled; they were like keys of a telegraph board struck by a 
force outside the human. 

“Delmar! Delmar!” 

And at that moment Lewis believed he understood. 

That was why Mary Carlin had shot Delmar. 

That was why Austen had undertaken to shield Verity! 

“Curse everything!” The words escaped Lewis’s lips, 
and a woman across the aisle frowned indignantly. 

The next few days were destined to be so hurried and work- 
filled, so demanding and exacting, that Lewis got through 
them as if impelled by a force over which he had no control 
beyond the mere clutching of details and the fitting of them 
into niches, and then plunging ahead. At night he was so 
exhausted that he became unconscious—it was more that 
than sleep. 

He got money matters in shape. There was a considerable 
sum in the bank; he would add to that if necessary. He 
meant to pay high and get Mary Carlin off the scene before 
he talked to Austen. 


144 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


This was his affair now. He had arrived at that point and 
had mastered his damnable inheritance that reared at his 
determination. When danger was past, he would have a 
frank talk with Austen, and accept any blame Austen might 
put upon him. Austen had no right to demand much when 
he gave so little. There had been small choice, and Lewis 
felt no twinges of conscience. He was held to his course 
by his passion for Verity that had flamed and risen above all 
else in the hour of danger. 

Verity would be three days in New York. He must ar¬ 
range for Mary Carlin to see her; then he would take the next 
step. 

The possibility that he was all wrong in his conclusions 
and decisions did not now occur to Lewis. He was too 
concentrated upon the menaced future that belonged to him 
and Verity. If safety were to be secured—and with his 
intense egoism he had determined that it was to be—he 
alone could secure it. 

Verity must never know: he and Austen could work that 
out when Mary Carlin was disposed of. Perhaps Austen 
would talk then; together they might patch up a decent back¬ 
ground for Verity. Such things were done. It all depended 
upon prompt action now and a determined hold hereafter. 

The future was his and Verity’s; what part Austen would 
have in it depended upon himself. 

The arrangement for getting Mary Carlin to New York 
went through smoothly. Upon her arrival at the hotel the 
young nurse telephoned to him, and within an hour he was 
on his way to see the sick woman. He found her lying upon a 
couch with the cheerful young attendant bustling about. 

“Til go into the bedroom, Mrs. Carlin,” she said when 
Lewis entered. “You can call me if you want me.” 

Lewis drew a chair to the couch and gazed critically upon 
the woman he feared and pitied. 

“You look better,” he said, and then surprisedly observed 
the new and becoming clothing. Vaguely he wondered how 
that had been obtained. 

“The nurse bought these”—Mary Carlin touched her 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


145 


gown—“ after I came. There is a shop near by.” This 
seemed of vital importance and it made talk. “Clothes help 
so—they are a woman's salvation. I had nothing.” 

The head turned restlessly on the pillow. 

“I have your ticket,” Lewis went on, “for Southampton.” 
He sounded brutally cold, but he was more afraid than he 
had ever been. 

“England's as good as any other place, Mr. Lewis. I know 
London, a little, and I speak its language.” A change had 
come over Mary Carlin with her clothes. The strength of 
her weakness was asserting itself. 

“I hope-” Lewis paused. 

“Don't hope for anything for me but my death. What is 
there for me in life ? And yet I hang on as if—as if there were 
something still for me to do.” 

“There is!” Lewis's young eyes looked haunted and 
pitiful. “I’ve been thinking all day of what you are going 
to do, Mrs. Carlin, and I think it is about as big and fine a 
thing as a woman has ever done.” Suggestion proved suc¬ 
cessful. A broken sob shook the form on the couch. It 
was stifled at once as if in fear of one who might punish. The 
prison control still held. 

“What else could I do?” 

“You might do much less, Mrs. Carlin. You might make 
it difficult for us all.” 

“I see; but it would not be of any use, Mr. Lewis. I have 
counted the cost alone there in the prison; at least I shall be 
free.” 

Wearily the words fell without resentment or undue em¬ 
phasis. 

“And”—here Lewis went cautiously—“perhaps you had 
better give me your address, Mrs. Carlin. There may come 
a time when I'll need it.” 

But Mary Carlin shook her head, and a certain flickering 
pride touched her face. 

“ I—I reserve the right, once I leave America, to have com¬ 
plete isolation. I will have you informed of my death—I 
will do nothing more. If you regret the money, I relinquish 



SMOTHERED FIRES 


146 

my claim to that.” This took courage, then stiffly: “I am 
not being bought.^ 

A pitiful dignity rang weakly in the words: “I have a friend 
to whom I can go—in America. I heard from her to-day. 
“No”—for Mary Carlin saw fear in Lewis’s eyes—“you 
need not worry. But if I went to her I would be as safely hid 
as if the ocean rolled between us.” 

“You misunderstand,” Lewis hastened to say. “I will 
abide by your decision as to how the money shall be paid. 
You have my address when more money is needed. You 
will have only to write to me.” 

Lewis passed her a sealed packet. 

“Thank you. It does seem like being bought, but there is 
only one other way, and you prefer my absence.” 

“Yes. Frankly, that is what we desire.” 

“You are most generous.” The voice broke miserably. 
“I wish that I might go without the money. To accept it is 
harder than you know; but I am helpless.” 

Lewis turned his head away. He could not face the 
misery in the eyes holding his. 

“And you still insist,” he said, walking to the window, “on 
seeing Verity? You think that you can bear it?” He 
spoke the name determinedly as if learning it in a new sense. 

“I can bear it.” Then suddenly: “You—you have seen 
Judge Austen. Does he object?” 

“He does not know.” 

“Thank you.” The relief in the tone was touching. 
Lewis came back and took his seat by the couch. 

“I am placing great faith in you,” he said. 

“Again, thank you, Mr. Lewis. I shall not forget.” Sud¬ 
denly and with curious intensity Mary Carlin asked: “Where 
is she?” 

With that feeling of repugnance, which Mary Carlin caused 
when she drew near the intimate circle of his life, Lewis re¬ 
plied: “She has been with a friend of Judge Austen’s.” 

“A woman?” 

“Yes.” This came rebelliously, and for some reason it 
aroused a weak show of resentment in Mary Carlin. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


147 


“I lost sight of her for a time. That is all.” 

“You what?” Again Lewis was conscious of fear. 

“Oh! I have kept in touch—it was the only holy thing I 
had to think about while I was-” 

“Who has kept you in touch?” There was anger in 
Lewis’s voice, anger born of doubt. 

“I—I told you that I had one friend to whom I might go. 
She has told me enough to keep me from going crazy. 
Judge Austen”—this came falteringly—“is a good man.” 

For some reason this brought Lewis relief. 

“But this woman?” he asked. 

“She will not bother. I am glad”—weakly—“to do Judge 
Austen a good turn. My friend will give no trouble. And 
now, Mr. Lewis, when may I see—my child?” 

At that moment the nurse entered, gave Mary Carlin some 
medicine with the cheerful assurance that it would strengthen 
her, and again departed. 

“I wonder if you would know your child, Mrs. Carlin?” 
Lewis asked. “It has been so long since-” 

“I will know her!” 

“Well, then, Mrs. Carlin, here is my plan. It is the best 
that I can do. To-morrow Verity Leighton arrives in New 
York—her train is due at the Grand Central at three. It 
may be late, but probably not. Judge Austen will be there 
to meet her. I will call for you at two-thirty, we will stand 
with the waiting crowd. It is a poor, shabby arrangement, 
but I could think of no other that would be safe.” 

“Oh! if she, not knowing, would but look at me in pass¬ 
ing!” The words came on a broken sob. 

“I will stand out of sight, Mrs. Carlin,” Lewis said slowly, 
“but you must not betray yourself.” 

“I will not. Oh, I will not.” 

Then, with a hysterical gasp: “Such queer things happen. 
There’s a Bible in my bedroom, Mr. Lewis, a hotel Bible. I 
picked it up while I was resting to-day; I opened it and read 
that scene where Jesus looked at His mother from the cross. 
The look! the look—how she must have lived on it all her 
life after!” 



i 4 8 SMOTHERED FIRES 

Sob upon sob choked Mary Carlin, but she buried her face 
in the cushions. 

“I cannot trust you if you give way so, Mrs. Carlin.’' 
Lewis was genuinely anxious. 

“I shall not give way again. I promise.” 

“I must go now. You will try to rest?” 

“I will rest. And I am very, very tired.” 

“And after?” 

“I sail the day after. That is the end. I will trouble you 
no more; no more.” 

A crowd gathered at the gates behind which the three 
o’clock train puffed in. It was a popular, limited train. 
Amid the crowd, securely hid, Lewis, his hat slouched over 
his face, and Mary Carlin, shielded by her veil, waited. 
Presently Lewis stepped back, leaving his companion alone. 

“There she is!” It was Mary Carlin who spoke. Lewis 
had not seen Verity. He hardly dared look now. 

She came so close to the line that held the crowd back, that 
Lewis shrank. 

As if pressing forward to a goal, Verity passed. Her head 
was lifted and thrown back, her lips were parted; her fine 
eyes scanned the waiting crowd, seeking Austen, but they did 
not fall upon the scarred and haggard face so close to the line. 

Then a silvery cry was heard: “Barney, Barney—here I 
am, here I am!” 

The scarred woman swayed and Lewis reached forth to 
grasp her. 

“Pm not fainting, Mr. Lewis. Do not be afraid.” Then 
with a choked sob: “Not even a look to remember. Not 
even a look!” 


CHAPTER XIV 


I WISH, Mother, that you would invite Austen and Verity 
to dinner—-informally, you know.” 

Lewis looked haggard and spent. He had seen Mary 
Carlin sail away, and instead of feeling well rid of a burden, 
he felt as if he were being dragged after her. He began to 
doubt the wisdom of his course. The power of the woman, 
who had so imprinted her strange personality upon others, 
was closing about Lewis. “We would all have been safer,” 
he thought, “if I hadn’t sent her into space.” 

Mrs. Lewis, sitting in a circle of light from a standing lamp, 
looked nervously at Aunt Jane, sitting in another circle of 
light across the room. Lewis spoke from the gloom beyond. 
“Is the young woman in the city, son?” 

“Yes. She’s been on a visit to some old friends of Austen. 
She’s on her way to school.” 

“My son, I must speak.” 

“Let ’er go, Mother!” There were times when Lewis 
could avert an avalanche by turning the flood in another 
channel. “I’ll bet you are going to tell me that you are giv¬ 
ing dinners to the rector and the archbishop and the stranger 
within our gates.” 

“ I must warn you!” The flood was not to be turned aside. 
It was headed straight for its goal. “I have seen the danger 
from the first. I have hesitated to speak—you know my 
aversion to intruding—but the time has come when 1 must 
speak.” 

Lewis, grateful for the darkness in which he sat, yawned. 
“It is this—this young girl, Verity Leighton, of whom I 
must warn you!” 

“What about her?” Lewis was alert: the yawn had been 
checked halfway. 


149 


150 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“That is what I would like very much to know. Who does 
know?” Mrs. Lewis spoke as if Verity had but just dawned 
upon her horizon. 

“We all know all that there is to know. We have known 
it all along.” 

Lewis bridled and felt the perspiration come out on his 
forehead. “ I will run over the items to refresh your memory. 
She’s a daughter of a client of Judge Austen’s. He’s always 
been frank enough about this.” 

“Not frank enough for a loving mother, my son.” 

“Rot!” muttered the fond son. “Why flare out now?” 

“Theodore, of late you have been different. I have never 
approved of your friendship with Judge Austen. Such 
friendship is never normal and wholesome.” 

Lewis, recalling Austen’s help in time past, grunted a dis¬ 
respectful opinion and added: “I’d have been a darned worse 
fellow than I am, Mother, except for Judge Austen.” 

Mrs. Lewis disregarded this and went on: “Who, when all 
is said and done, is Judge Austen? We do not know that he 
ever had a grandfather.” 

“Grandfathers are an infernal bore—once dead,” Lewis 
returned recklessly. “They had their day. Why mortgage 
eternity?” 

“You amaze me, Theodore—shock me.” 

“I’m not particularly proud of my grandfathers or my 
father, Mother, when it comes to that!” Lewis was getting 
angry. 

“My son! My son!” Mrs. Lewis covered her face with 
her black-edged handkerchief. “You can so speak of the 
sainted dead!” For ten years Mrs. Lewis had worn mourn¬ 
ing for a husband who had insulted and ignored her. 

At this Lewis laughed. The sound had the effect of drying 
the wet eyes of Mrs. Lewis. 

“You act guilty,” she said firmly; and certainly, could she 
have seen her son’s face, she would have been confirmed in 
her belief. “I thank my God for the intuition that lights 
my way. Come what may, Theodore, I will speak and then 
leave the matter in your hands.—Jane, for heaven’s sake stop 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


151 

knitting. I believe you purposely clatter your needles.” 
Mrs. Lewis was, as she expressed it, “all on edge.” 

Jane Lewi's rolled her knitting and put it in her bag, and 
Mrs. Lewis proceeded: 

“Barnard Austen has always seemed to me like a wily 
spider. Silent, calm, he weaves and draws within his web 
young men of family. For what?” 

“The Lord knows, Mother. But you need not give the 
dinner party if you feel this way. Let’s drop it!” 

But the flood descended. 

“First, to worm his own way into respectable homes.” 
Figures of speech were mere words on Mrs. Lewis’s tongue. 
A spider worming his way was a perfectly justifiable figure to 
her. “Then, to use them; make them take his chestnuts out 
of the fire; and now to marry this unknown girl into a family 
whose daughters have always been, by birth and law, im¬ 
maculate!” 

At this, for some never-to-be-known reason, Aunt Jane 
laughed. 

“You laugh , Jane?” 

“Forgive me, sister-in-law, it escaped me.” Jane twisted 
in her chair. 

“Escaped you!” There was a silence. Then: “I believe 
this Verity Leighton is Barnard Austen’s illegitimate child 
whom he is trying to establish!” The final shot was 
fired. 

“Cut it out, Mother!” Lewis was white with rage. 
“Why is it that such good women as you kick up mud when 
there is no need to?” 

Lewis had the sensation produced by being tickled. He 
wanted to roar in agony, but instead he laughed again. If 
we cannot estimate the power of a word, we surely cannot 
estimate that of a laugh. Never had Lewis laughed in his 
mother’s presence as he did then. It was like a sudden 
recognition of an inevitable barrier between them. It 
frightened her, she actually strove mentally to scramble over 
it and reach him. 

“I suppose we do owe Judge Austen some hospitality”; 


152 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


she blundered, ignoring her recent remarks and clutching at 
her son as he seemed to recede on the echo of that laugh. 

“We owe him an apology,” was what Lewis said. 

“We could have a dinner to-morrow or the next day, if that 
would please you.” 

Oh! the tragedy of such a moment! For a mother to force 
the truth about herself into the consciousness of a son who 
had been able, heretofore, to respect and love the image he 
had created of her from his necessity and loyalty! 

“We’ll cut the dinner out, Mother, and since I cannot feel 
free in your home to entertain my friends, you will not object 
to my taking rooms elsewhere.” 

Mrs. Lewis was aghast. From her circle of light she leaned 
forward and touched the electric button, flooding the room 
with light. She had hoped to find her son sitting in his 
father’s chair, but she saw a stranger! 

“Rooms?” she murmured. “My son, my son, what do 
you mean—rooms ? ” 

“Why, I mean rooms! A place of my own where I can 
invite people without-” 

“My son, have you acquaintances that are unfit for your 
mother’s home?” 

“Well, not exactly unfit, but sort of, well, specially mine.” 

“You terrify me, Theodore. I have put entire confidence 
in you. I have felt that your inheritance, your training, 
had secured you against the temptations-” 

“Good God, Mother! You must spend your life binding 
up your ideas and soul so that they cannot stretch. Never 
mind! We’ll talk of the rooms later.” 

“No, let us talk of them now!” Mrs. Lewis was white- 
lipped. 

“It’s a wretched business,” Lewis broke in, “the hold of 
the dead past upon the present. It sucks the very life blood. 
All the sap of the Lewises is in the roots—the buried roots. It 
does not run up. Let me alone, Mother, I’ve got to live.” 

“But—the rooms,” Mrs. Lewis breathed, “you mean— 
perhaps you mean that you would like to have the top floor 
here. I had intended that for you, if you ever married. We 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


153 

could put in a small kitchen; Davis could serve you, if you 
desired to dine there with—with friends.” 

“Thanks, Mother, I do not want the top floor. I’m going 
to have rooms to begin in, not go on in. Of course, I’ll be 
home a great deal, if you want me; it will make very little 
difference, really, but I think it will be best.” 

How definite it was, this idea but an hour old! 

The iron entered Mrs. Lewis’s soul, but it did not rend and 
shatter it: it reinforced it. 

“The day may come, Theodore, when you will regret the 
step you are taking.” 

“That may be. Mother.” 

Lewis rose wearily. Never had he needed his mother so 
sorely, but the woman upon whom his eyes rested was a 
stranger—just a woman—and as such, objectionable. She 
repelled him. 

He noticed her heavy mourning, how insincere it was; he 
noted the thin, fine features, how devoid they were of plain 
human beauty. Whatever the thing was that she wor¬ 
shipped, it had done the charm and the mother of her to 
death. 

“I may not be back to-night, Mother.” Lewis moved to 
the door but Mrs. Lewis did not raise her eyes. 

Then a remarkable thing happened. Jane Lewis got up, 
walked across the room as if propelled by machinery that was 
running down. She put her thin, wrinkled hands upon 
Lewis’s shoulders and reached up and—kissed him! She, 
who had never borne a child, felt her maternity overpowering 
her. 

“God bless and keep you, Theodore,” she said firmly. 
“Good-night.” 

Lewis drew the little, crooked figure close to his heart. 
He dared not speak, but his lips clung to the cold ones on 
his. 

He slept that night at the Kismet Club and the next day 
turned up late at the office. Austen regarded him keenly. 

“Sick?” he asked. 

“Sick nothing! Barney, what’s Verity doing to-day?” 


154 SMOTHERED FIRES 

“ She’s not moping because of your neglect and bad man¬ 
ners, Ted.” 

“That’s good. Will you lend her to me, Barney?” 

“What for?” 

“I’m setting up housekeeping. Just signed contracts for 
a—for an apartment.” 

Austen looked grave. 

“Oh, that’s all right, Barney. Nothing doing, only that 
the Mater and I came to a clinch over our ideas of living. 
We’ll all be the better off for two roofs.” 

“I see.” Austen, to whom silences were ordinary fare, 
respected them in others; demanded them at times. “I see. 
Well, I think, myself, families put too big a strain on their 
members. You’ve got a place, eh?” 

“Yes, a block from yours. High, dry, and absolutely 
antique-proof.” 

“That sounds good. Sit down and take it easy. Verity 
will be here in a half-hour. She will be glad for something 
to do. She’s a master hand at spending money—better 
not let her get the bit in her teeth or her hands on your 
purse!” 

“She’s welcome.” Lewis turned to his desk and fell to 
work. Austen, watching him, was struck by the sudden 
gravity of the tense face. 

“There’s been a row,” he thought. “Why, in God’s 
name, cannot people let others alone? Why smash the sa- 
credest things with things that do not count a rap?” 

But when later Verity fluttered into the office Austen’s 
wonderment and Lewis’s gravity disappeared. 

There was that about the girl—and it was constantly im¬ 
pressing itself on Austen and Lewis—that suggested detach¬ 
ment. It was more than independence, more than the 
assurance of youth: it was a spiritual thing. She seemed to 
have escaped from any hold that had been put upon her, and 
from her safe vantage point reached out fearlessly, lovingly. 
She had her own outlooks and conclusions, but she was in¬ 
tensely interested in others. 

She had got used to the sensation of “not belonging”; she 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


155 


had accepted things as she found them and was tremendously 
intent upon modelling her life from what was at her command. 

She had lost the sad look in her eyes that the death of her 
schoolmates had left. The hills had restored her; their peace 
rested in her glance. 

“I hope, Ted,” she said, lightly seating herself on the arm of 
a chair, “that you’ve got a good excuse for not turning up to 
dinner last night. Sheila O’Neil will not mention youi 
name. We had fried chicken.” 

Lewis laughed. All his gloom had disappeared. 

“I want you to come and help me buy furniture,” he said. 
“I’m setting up housekeeping.” 

For a moment the glint in Verity’s eyes dimmed, flitted, 
and then she remarked: 

“Revolt or subjugation?” 

“Neither.” 

“How well they understood each other,” Austen thought, 
watching the play. 

“I’m trying my hand at going it alone.” Lewis lighted 
a cigarette and started for his hat and coat. 

“I haven’t accepted yet, Ted.” 

“Don’t waste time!” Lewis retorted. 

A moment later they started forth, going at once to the 
apartment. 

“Oh! it’s a duck of a place,” Verity announced at her 
first glimpse of the four sunny, airy rooms. “Everything 
new. No one has left a suggestion, or a ghost. All you have 
to do now, Ted, is to wedge yourself in and then press out 
until you fill every crevice. I bet the landlord thought I 
was your bride-to-be. Did you see him grin?” 

Lewis looked at the tall, lithe creature. 

“It must be the Delmar strain,” he thought distractedly, 
and marvelled as many had before him at the cynical power 
of nature that often takes the least moral channel to preserve 
its finest strain. 

“Resenting the landlord’s curiosity, Ted?” 

“No. I’m simply indulging my own.” 

“Ha! ha!” The silvery laugh rang in the empty rooms. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


156 

The western light flooded the place; its bareness seemed 
suggestive of cheer and welcome; an open-armedness, a re¬ 
sponse to the youth that had entered in to conquer. 

“Ted!” Verity was peeping into a clever closet—a space 
arranged by inspiration. “Here’s a cedar chest—you can sit 
on that to pull on your shoes; here are hat shelves, boot trees, 
and here is a nice cosy corner for Ted, have you got a skele¬ 
ton? If you have, jam it in this slit behind the clothes rod.” 

Lewis looked grim. For a wretched moment he felt ill at 
ease with this vivid young person alone with him in his rooms. 

“What’s a home without a skeleton ?” Verity laughed her 
tradition-shocking laugh. 

“I think I prefer dogs,” Lewis said. “I’m going to have a 
wire-hair. A friend has selected him. He’s named Scruff. 
Isn’t that bully?” 

“Bully! And that ends the skeleton. A wire-hair would 
shred anything, with bones, to pieces. The name, however, 
suggests untidiness. Going to have a day bed?” They 
were in the small sun-filled bedroom. 

“I think I prefer a night one,” Lewis replied. 

“So do I. I hate makeshifts. I’ve learned that much 
at school. Let’s sit on this window seat, Ted, while I run 
over some of the high lights of my recent experience. I only 
have one other suggestion. Never place sofa cushions: chuck 
them!” 

And there they sat in the empty, waiting rooms and talked. 

“Do you remember that play we saw together long ago, 
Ted?—the one about the girl who wasn’t afraid of life? 
That marked a turning point for me. I scared dear Barney 
into the knowledge that I had red blood in my veins, and it 
thrilled me through and through. As I go on living I 
realize what a corking play that was and what a blessing red 
blood is. There is nothing in life to be afraid of; nothing, 
if the colour of your blood is right. Ted, did it ever occur to 
you that the job for our generation is to smash bugaboos? 
Walk with eyes open and beat the past generation to it?” 

“Does it ever occur to you, Verity, that our job is usually 
cut out for us by those who hand it to us?” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


157 


“Men or—God, Ted?” 

“God has only men to work through.” 

“Anything God hands to me, He hands, Himself.” Verity 
tossed her head. “No middle-man for me.” 

And then the talk drifted to Coverly, to the likelihood of 
the operation on Warren’s eyes, and the result. 

“When he sees—oh! my Lord!” Verity raised her hands. 

“Sees what?” Lewis caught vaguely at the flying missiles 
Verity let loose. 

“Themselves, goose. They never have seen them¬ 
selves.” 

“In the words of Scripture, Verity, you are a wild ass!” 
Lewis laughed gaily. 

“Constance is corking,” she went on, ruminatingly. “She 
is beautiful, too, if the fact could be brought to her attention. 
She’d be a wonder, but Vance thinks she’s a white-winged 
dove descended straight from heaven and has alighted on his 
head, or soul, or something. She isn’t, you know. I bet 
Barney doesn’t think she’s a dove on any one’s head. The 
fact is, she hasn’t alighted yet, Ted, and I tell you when she 
does, it’s going to be with a thump.” 

“Cut it out, Verity!” Lewis felt as if cold water were 
dripping down his spine. He glanced up to see if there were a 
leak from above. “I had hoped you would escape the sex 
messiness.” 

“I couldn’t, but that’s all right in its place. What have you 
against sex?” 

“Nothing.” Lewis looked abashed, but Verity ran on. 

“And Constance thinks that Vance is a spiritual essence 
of man. He isn’t. He’s a man. Just because one is blind 
or deaf doesn’t mean that he is idiotic or foreign. When I 
got up there, Ted, truly I was horrified. The stage was set 
for Vance’s death. Vance Warren is some man, Ted; he is 
going to live and prove it.” 

Ted wiped his brow and looked about dazedly. 

“Isn’t Barney ripping?” Verity asked blithely. “He 
improves year by year. So handsome, so alarmingly fine. 
While I was a child he seemed old, but now every time I come 


158 SMOTHERED FIRES 

home he seems more dangerously youthful. How he escaped, 
God only knows!” 

“Escaped what?” Lewis gasped. 

“Women. Maybe he hasn’t. Perhaps he has a dark past 
that he has managed to burnish up and—and restore.” 

“For heaven’s sake, Verity, let’s talk tables and 
chairs.” 

So they talked furniture for a time, but Verity felt that 
she must make the most of her opportunity to attack certain 
topics taboo from general conversation. 

“Do you know, I have an awful suspicion that your mother 
fears for you.” This brought Lewis to a sharp turn and a 
dark flush. 

Verity, leaning back against the buflF-coloured wall, seemed 
to fit in with the scheme, she was so golden and pale and fine; 
but so alarming in her awful keenness. 

“She fears for me, yes! She fears these rooms! Poor 
Mother!” breathed Ted. 

“Yes, poor Mother, Ted. Why will mothers insist upon 
being mothers when they have been given such a divine 
opportunity to be friends?” 

“ Gee! Verity. One gets to considering you a wild ass, and 
you suddenly reveal yourself as a—what shall I say?” 

“Just a thinking animal, Ted. But your mother fears for 
you because of me.” 

This was staggering. It drove Lewis to the wall. 

“Ted, you understand, don’t you?” 

“I hope so.” 

“Do I scare you, dear old Ted?” 

“No, you paralyse me.” 

“Nice old Ted! I’d hate to have you misunderstand. You 
see I have too much to do to be hampered.” 

“Dear little wild ass! What have you to do?” 

“Oh, remodel the world! Well, that’s that! Now let 
us go and pick up Barney and have dinner. It’s a wonder¬ 
ful world, Ted, wonderful. It’s divine to be at the beginning 
of things. I used to feel sodden because I did not belong 
in any true sense to any one. I have got over that. I often 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


159 


think I’m just created and turned loose in a brand-new world. 
I’m going to grow up with the world. I’m not hampered and, 
as a blessed old woman up in Vermont says, Em going to take 
courage for my friend and —” She paused, threw her head 
back, and added—“strike the up trail.” 


CHAPTER m 


I T WAS definitely settled at last. There was to be an 
operation on Warren’s eyes. The physician, who, in 
Italy, had given hope, was in America; had been to Five 
Winds and passed judgment. 

“This is a miracle,” he cried after his examination of 
Warren. “The man is sound and there is no reason why the 
operation should not prove successful.” 

Warren gave his light laugh and asked: “And-what if it fail?” 
“You will be no worse off, and you must not let doubt enter 
in.” 

So the time was set for August. 

“I’m going to ask a strange thing, Barney,” Constance 
wrote to Austen when details were settled. “I want 
Verity here when the time comes. Just Verity. Try and 
arrange it.” 

And during the time preceding the operation Coverly 
droned on and the lack of excitement got on Jonas’s nerves. 

While he had been interested, gathering material for his 
evil brew, he forgot the simple dissipations that lured him on 
occasion, but with Five Winds empty of suggestion and with 
Haney eternally on guard, suspicious, but denouncing herself 
secretly for her suspicions, the days were miserable and the 
nights wakeful for both the old people. 

“There ain’t no escaping her,” Jonas said. “She won’t 
even trust me with grocery money when I’m sent erranding. 
But when my government money comes”—Jonas had a pen¬ 
sion for what was supposed to be his service in the Civil War— 
“I’m going to brace up for my rights. I fought and bled for 
that money, and by the Almighty, I’m going to put up a stand 
for my rights.” 

As a matter of fact, Jonas had neither fought nor bled for 
160 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


161 


his country. He had been taken prisoner, early in the strug¬ 
gle, and lived to reap the reward for service he had never given. 
But when the pension money did arrive, Jonas strutted. 

Nancy, with fear in her heart, refrained from any attempt to 
restrain Jonas from doing as he wished with what she acknowl¬ 
edged was his own. So Jonas departed for the Tavern and 
for several days and nights indulged in what he termed “ the 
sacred rights of an American—personal rights.” 

At the end of the week he could not enunciate “personal 
rights,” though he made many attempts. The next stage in 
Goodall’s personal expression was the mellowed, tearful stage. 
He looked upon Nancy as Woman, not as his despised wife. 
He was maudlin, terrifying, and Nancy grew silent and grim. 
Then Jonas wept and presently resented her, and at last, like 
a mischievous boy, determined to make trouble somewhere 
by any means in his power. He gathered his forces and lay 
in wait. 

“I’ll make her sorry!” he blubbered. “Acting up like she 
was better and purer than folks—she, a Smith!” 

At first Jonas conceived the idea of running away—not far, 
but far enough to frighten Nancy. Then he grew moody, 
ugly, senselessly vindictive. Somebody had to suffer! 

“I’ll raise hell!” Jonas drunkenly decided and, not hav¬ 
ing any more money to share with other hell makers, he 
brooded and wandered away from home alone. 

One day, a week after Verity’s departure, Jonas had come 
upon Warren feeling his way, by tapping his cane, on a safe 
trail near Five Winds Hill. With the cane, and by counting 
the trees, when he came to the path, Warren was able to 
exercise and exult in the sense of independence so lately born. 

“Fourteen trees, then turn. Fourteen trees; then the 
meadow with its sharply defined path; then the road—turn to 
the right—and so on up to the house.” 

It was between the twelfth and fourteenth trees that Jonas’s 
voice startled Warren and made him lose his count! 

Jonas, sitting on a fallen log, viewed the blind man through 
bleared eyes. He wanted to cry, but suddenly he remem¬ 
bered certain things concerning Warren that rose accusingly. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


162 

“Not against him,” Jonas floundered in his thoughts, “but 
about him.” Then a great wave of humanity swept Jonas 
from his insecure mooring; he felt like a suffering brother of 
Warren. 

“Well, sir!” he grunted, “if this ain’t wicked and cruel!” 

Warren started. “Who is that?” he called. 

“Just a friend, just Jonas Goodall.” 

“Oh! Good afternoon, Goodall. I never expect to meet a 
friend on this walk. How are you ?” 

Jonas pronounced himself “feeble” and begged Warren to 
share the log. 

“Two derelicts!” he muttered when Warren, with an amused 
laugh, accepted the hospitality of the log. He saw a half- 
hour’s amusement with the old man. He let him babble on 
for a time as one does a child, but suddenly he drew himself 
up: the drivel was taking on substance, Jonas was saying 
things! Rather, he was uncovering, in a dark corner of 
Warren’s mind, hateful, hurting thoughts. 

From rambling recollections of the old Senator and Con¬ 
stance, Jonas had touched upon Austen’s first visit to 
Coverly. “Vacationing,” he expressed it. Two or three 
sinister chuckles at this point roused Warren. 

“I uster see ’em wandering in woods and giving the old 
Senator the slip.” 

Warren never could recall later just how much followed 
this, it was all so confused, vile, and astounding. Apparently 
Jonas had separated his listener from a personal part in the 
slander he was voicing, he was considering him as a listener, 
a crony of the Tavern. 

“And when it came to marrying—God! Men like this 

Barney Austen don’t want to marry. They-” Warren 

struggled to his feet, his face was white and set. “And 
coming back, now, to ferret out—and this here girl—who is 
she, this here Verity? What does it all mean? This ain’t 
any kind of stuff to pass out to a God-fearing community 
what has-” 

“ Stand up!” Warren’s voice, stern, hard, had the physical 
effect of bringing Jonas to his feet. 



SMOTHERED FIRES 163 

“You’re an old man, but I’m a blind one: we’re quits. Now, 
then, take what you deserve—you!” 

While white anger and abhorrence held, Warren struck out 
once, twice, thrice. Two blows fell on Jonas, one cut his 
cheek, in spite of his effort to shield himself. Then sanity, 
shame, overpowered Warren. 

“Get home,” he commanded. “I had no business to for¬ 
get myself. Are you hurt ?” 

Jonas groaned. “You’ve pretty nigh ruined me.” He 
wiped the blood from his face. 

“Get home!” 

Warren turned away sick at heart. How he ever found 
his way back he never knew. He did not attempt to count 
the trees, but he mechanically tapped the ground and went on. 
He reached Five Winds, found the living hall empty, and 
sat down, exhausted, by the ashy hearth. 

Presently he began to think and feel. Something in him 
had received sight; been shocked into consciousness. He 
was able for a time to detach his sensations from people and 
fix them upon incidents, upon situations. 

Looking back upon his prison house of dreams—and al¬ 
ready he was looking back at it—he realized that it was when 
Verity, with her youth and daring, had set him toward life 
instead of death, that his walls had trembled. While he 
was dying, bravely, dramatically, the lesser things of life 
had not mattered: Money, woman’s love, not even sacrifice 
for the short hour of what was left of life. In defying these 
lesser things he had welcomed death; had been able to laugh 
and joke during his pitiful hour. Often he had dreamed 
that when he was gone Constance would remember his 
indifference toward death and find comfort in it. He had 
acted a part in the shadow of death. 

And then he had discovered, through a girl’s bravado, that 
his dark was not peopled with danger so much as with 
ignorance. For a short time or long a man must play his 
part in life. Once he confronted life he was bound to call 
things by their rough, common names. Names such as that 
vile old man had uttered. 


164 SMOTHERED FIRES 

Warren shuddered as he recalled the blows he had aimed at 
the creature. 

“A blind beggar!” Warren gripped the arms of his chair. 
“I am that—a blind beggar. Sunning myself in the bounty 
and unselfishness of a woman, while tongues wagged and I 
stopped my ears.” 

Then Warren seemed to drift back to the fair golden days 
in Italy when the spell of the country was over him and Con¬ 
stance. 

“But even if they knew that,” he thought, “who could 
understand ?” 

Not for a moment did Warren regard Constance, Austen, or 
Verity in the light of evil that old Goodall had turned upon 
them, but again he reflected upon the situation and its 
significance. 

Suppose there had been something unhappy in the past 
between Austen and Constance, and that now they confronted 
each other—over him. 

Well, what then? 

If Constance, carrying her hurt and sad past through the 
world, had come across a man placed as he had been in Italy, 
and had bargained, superbly, courageously bargained for 
two years—not ten . . . Two years of divine peace, 

safety, splendid companionship, and in return—a name; a 
tawdry ceremony that the world places such significance upon 
in order to restore what otherwise- 

“A wife!” Warren shuddered. “Some women hit men 
back in that way.” Perhaps Constance had. 

But after the two years. When the divine tragedy became 
a divine comedy, what then? It had been a fair enough 
bargain. 

Warren eliminated Austen and Verity. He and Constance 
were alone at last, dealing with their problem—if there were 
a problem. 

In that hour Warren longed for death; determined to refuse 
to undergo the operation. Perhaps there would be another 
brief space of dreams and peace before the final scene. 

Restless, torn by doubt and despair, he pulled himself to- 



SMOTHERED FIRES 


165 

gether. No! He was not going to turn tail and scurry into 
the coward’s corner. He meant to play the game out. He 
had practised to some purpose. Things were not even. 
What had he given for those two years? 

By the time Constance returned from the village, he had 
himself well in hand. 

“I stopped at Lower Farm,” Constance said, flitting about 
the room drawing a shade here, patting a cushion there, “and 
old Uncle Jonas came in. He is getting over the worst spree 
he has had in years. He had fallen, cut his head quite badly. 
I helped, as I could, and left Aunt Nancy freshening him up, 
as she pitifully expresses it. He tried to tell her how it 
happened. He said he fell in the woods, but I think some 
cowardly fellow struck him. He hadn’t a cent in his pocket; 
he was probably robbed. Poor Aunt Nancy!” 

And that night as Warren lay in his bed while Constance 
read, a fierce summer storm came up and beat savagely upon 
the west side of the house, upon which opened Constance’s 
windows. 

“I cannot hear you, Con, this devil of a storm kicks up such 
a racket.” 

“ Perhaps you can sleep, dear.” 

“Perhaps. I’ll try.” 

Then while Constance moved about the room Warren lis¬ 
tened to her every movement. How swift, noiseless she was 
in action! Sometimes she hummed in a light, breathless kind 
of way. She never dropped anything; never knocked against 
anything. 

Far on toward morning Warren lay listening to the even 
breath of the woman in the bed next his own. If he stirred, 
that even breath became irregular. 

It was a day or two later when Warren made a request. 

“ Con, I wish you’d have a room fixed up for me on the south 
side of the house, will you ?” 

“A room, dear? A room for what?” 

“To sleep in, if I can. The south side is more sheltered, 
Isn’t it, from storms?” 

“Why, yes, but-” 



166 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“You see, Con, I want to give myself every chance for the 
big test. I want to sleep better, eat more; exercise more— 
do my part.” 

“Why, of course, dear, I’ll have the room arranged—the 
one right across the hall from ours.” 

“Thanks, Con. And isn’t this operation going to cost you 
a small fortune?” 

“Cost us , you mean. Well, what are fortunes for?” 

“But I—I might go to a hospital.” They were planning 
to turn the tower room into an operating room, for Warren 
had a nervous distaste of hospitals. 

“You are to remain here, dear, and the south room is 
warmer, mdre sheltered.” 

“Winds are my horror, Con. If ever I commit murder or 
set an orphan asylum afire, it will be on a windy night.” 

Constance laughed and patted his cheek. An awful sense of 
relief overcame her for which she felt a shame she dared not 
face. “With Vance across the hall”—she shrank from her 
thought, but again and again it returned. 

If Warren were hewing his way along a dark path, she was 
doing likewise, with her wide and seeking eyes open. She 
was living as she never had lived before. Every sense seemed 
quickened. The beauty of the season had never before so 
stirred her. The days were golden, the air soft. And then 
the moonlight! It was like daylight under a thick white veil. 
Often, after Warren had changed his room and she left him 
for her own chamber, Constance would steal up to the 
tower room, where hung her father’s unfinished picture 
called “Waiting,” and breathe deep, free breaths. From 
what was she freed? She dared not ask that question. It 
frightened her. 

She stood by the window and looked out into the night, 
and something within her sang, and she stilled it—as one 
might still the voice of a stranger who had come into a house 
of death. 

To such as she, husband meant just one absorbing inter¬ 
pretation; but fate had relieved her for a time, and so some¬ 
thing in her sang. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


167 

i 

In spite of her silent insistence that she must be anxious 
about Warren’s approaching ordeal, that she was wretchedly 
wicked in her sense of freedom, now that Warren slept in the 
south chamber, she was unbelievably happy. Happy with 
the joyousness that does not depend on visible signs or tokens. 
Her imagination was quickened to light and power, it worked 
magically. While she lived her new, unquestioned life with 
Warren, her freed and blithe spirit could live with Austen. 
As she might once have played as other children played, so 
now she made-believe in dangerous but soul-widening ways. 
Suppression was relaxed. “Suppose . .. .” and from 

morning until night she “supposed.” 

Austen’s letters, filled with the small happenings of his 
busy days, court business, Verity’s future, all were fuel for 
the state of detachment in which Constance moved. She 
fancied herself Austen’s wife—this was madness. She 
pictured the glory of wifehood at last; heretofore wifehood 
had lacked glory. She was Verity’s mother—all her pent 
maternal emotion flared and flamed. That was why Verity 
charmed her. Verity was Austen’s; might have been hers. 

The woman who had smeared and scorched Austen’s life 
by her folly and madness was eliminated, and Constance 
seemed to drift into that woman’s place. 

Poor Vance Warren, however, was not always so casually 
disposed of. Once the mad fancies gave place to reality, Vance 
rosedemandingly. Now that he lived to a certain extent apart, 
Constance could regard him as she had when she ffrst met him 
—a tragic boyish figure who, but for her, would slip through 
the terrifying darkness into death—alone. He need not fear 
Austen; that was another matter, her secret, safely guarded. 

Again she felt the thrill and mystery of acting the part of 
God—but God was a just God. She could have no secrets 
from God. 

Warren was, as Verity had discovered, a man, not an 
abstraction. He was more simple, more direct. Constance’s 
devotion gradually overcame the poison of Goodall’s evil 
suggestion. 

Of course, he argued, if there were truth hidden behind the 


i68 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


slander, there would be an opportunity for him to prove him¬ 
self with honour. Warren’s mental operations were directed 
by sophistication, and no New England puritanism tinged his 
thought. There were possibilities of a mess, but certainly of 
no devastating calamity. 

If he were certain , he could face his ordeal, but it was knav¬ 
ish to continue to act as if he had accepted old GoodalPs 
interpretation. 

Constance’s present mood of tender devotion might 
mean- 

“Good Lord! Perhaps I’m wronging her. She’s proud; 
she couldn’t speak. I’ll put the thing to a test!” 


CHAPTER XVI 


W 


ARREN made his test a few weeks before his opera¬ 


tion. 


He and Constance had been particularly merry 
all the evening. They had sung together, for a few minutes 
danced together, and Warren had repeated some verses he 
had composed. 

‘‘You are simply wonderful, Vance.” Constance touched 
him fondly from her place near him. 

“How?” 

“Oh, I do not know. Just wonderful.” 

“Some day,” Warren had said, “when light comes and I 
will not have to dictate, Em going to write us up—write 
our story, Con. I bet it will be a best seller. Such a 
tale!” 


“I refuse to be copy!” 

When Warren started for bed Constance asked if she should 
read him to sleep. 

“No. Im going to beat the storm to it—I hear thunder 
in the hills,” he said. “The south chamber will come in 
handy,” he added. Then: “Kiss me, Con!” 

Something in his tone startled her, but she raised her 
face to his waiting one. 

“Shall I help you, dear?” she asked. 

“No. It’s queer, for lately I seem to have developed eyes. 
I go about as safe as any old hundred-eyed fellow. Extra 
sight seems superfluous.” 

“Don’t, Vance dear! It’s all too wonderful and heavenly 
to joke about.” 

“I’ve heard”—Warren moved toward the stairs—he did 
not grope—“I’ve heard that, at first, light and vision hurt 
after one has got used to the dark.” 

169 


170 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“You’re absurd, Vance. Good-night—happy dreams, 
and get ahead of the storm.” 

Then, when Warren’s door closed upon him, she stood listen¬ 
ing before she turned to put the room in order. She dis¬ 
liked to begin the day with the suggestion of last night’s 
mood. 

Slowly, quietly she worked and then, for no reason what¬ 
ever, she opened the outer door, secured it with the long 
chain—and thought of Austen. 

She turned the lights off and went slowly upstairs. She 
ran noiselessly through the upper hall, a bit breathless she 
reached her room, closed the door and—locked it! 

Slowly she undressed by the flashes of lightning that already 
rent the darkness; the thunder rumbled in the hills; the 
wind was rising. 

“I should not have left the lower door open,” she thought 
—but she did not go downstairs to close it. After all,-the 
rain could do no damage, and the wind was from the opposite 
direction. The windows rattled. She drew them down and 
sat by her clean hearth and—let herself go. An empty 
hearth, a wide empty space to be vision-filled. 

Presently she fell asleep and dreamed. She dreamed 
that Austen was in the room with her. He had come 
upstairs with her—she had left the outside door open 
for him. Of course! She had locked her own door against 
intrusion. 

It did not seem strange or shocking; it was the most natural 
thing in the world, when one dreamed, to have the most un¬ 
natural things occur. So, perhaps, had her ancestors borne 
their colourless lives. 

There Austen stood leaning against the mantel-shelf! How 
lifelike was the position he took in the dream. Head resting 
against his arm, body bent a little toward her. 

He was smiling that rare, kind smile of his, and she was 
telling him how hard it had been until—until that relief came 
via the south chamber. Austen looked puzzled, but it was 
clear enough to the dreamer. 

Then, still in the grip of the dream, she lifted her arms and 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


171 

Austen came slowly toward her. It seemed an interminable 
distance across the hearth. 

And at that moment there came a tap upon her door, and a 
sound as if one were seeking the knob. Instantly Constance 
was on her feet defending, God alone knew what! She 
clutched the folds of her gown across her breast. Her breath 
came sharp and quick. Then she went steadily to the door— 
so had her kin always met the inevitable; she opened it and 
faced Warren. 

“You cannot sleep, Vance? I will come and read to 
you.” 

“I want to come in.” Warren’s face looked grim and old 
—he seemed older, far older than Austen, who in that terrify¬ 
ing way seemed to be in the room still—but no, Con- 
tance glanced at the hearth: he was gone. Reality and 
dream were severed! 

“This storm, Vance, is terrific. You feel it here. I could 
not sleep. Let me come to you. You may take cold.” 

But Warren had closed thedoor behind him and was walking 
to the hearth where Austen had stood! 

“I prefer to remain here,” he said, and felt for a chair. 

An emotion that shamed and yet emboldened Constance 
caused her to laugh lightly as she sat down watching every 
move and expression of Warren’s. He no longer appealed to 
the maternal in her; he was arousing all that was dangerous 
and fear-filled. He seemed an intruder, a stranger, and for a 
moment she shrank from him. But he could not see the 
motion! 

“It does sound like hell outside, doesn’t it?” Warren bent 
forward and stretched out his beautiful, thin white hands as 
if seeking the warmth of a long-dead fire. 

“Yes. I warned you.” 

“You need not have warned me, Con. I am quite expert. 
One is who lives—in hell, you know.” 

“Vance! What is the matter? You must not talk so 
—please do not laugh!” Constance was as pale as if death, 
not life, were touching her. 

“I mean what I say, but I’ve fought my way out, Con, 


172 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


fought my way in my own fashion, and now things are bound 
to be better. I dare say you’ve been a bit scorched yourself, 
my dear, living so near hell.” 

“ Vance, you shall not talk like this. I cannot follow you.” 

“I thank God for that! Con, if you had followed me 
through the last few months, there would be the smell of 
brimstone on your pretty clothes, even if they escaped 
scorching.” 

“You mean that you have dreaded the operation, dear?” 
A wave of pity swept Constance toward him. 

“Operation? Good God, no! That’s bound to bring me 
light or everlasting darkness. Why should I fear that?” 

“What, then?” 

“I have feared that our love—our beautiful poem—was 
blank verse, Con. I wronged you, dear. You could not be 
blank verse, nor that damnable thing, free verse. You are 
pure melody. You are my wife!” 

The groping hands suddenly caught the sleeve of Con¬ 
stance’s gown and drew her close like a grip of steel. 

She came, dragged, to his side; she drooped to his feet. His 
arms, strong and sinewy, held her. His lips were close to 
her face. 

“I read a story once of a man going to his death, and he 
asked but one thing of the woman he loved—one thing. 
He wanted to take proof with him. No human-made tie 
held them. If she gave, she must give to prove her love, her 
faith, her divinity. It would mean—if she gave—heaven in¬ 
stead of hell to the doomed man. Con, I face death. I 
ask-” 

“Vance! I—I—oh! God forgive me, I—cannot V 9 The 
words were wrung from Constance’s control. 

Warren relaxed his hold and she fell like a dead weight 
against him. 

The storm howled. A clock below struck two. Then: 
“Why in heaven’s name did you marry me?” Warren’s 
voice rang hard like steel, and a shuddering clap of thunder 
followed. “Answer me truly, Con. Answer a doomed 
man.” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


173 


“I—I don’t know! Oh, yes, I do know, Vance, I do. I 
wanted to know life. I wanted to help you, have something 
of my own. I thought that you were dying-” 

“You wanted to know life? Good God! And through 
me—well, what have I taught you—I ?” 

“You”—Constance was sobbing miserably—“you have 
taught me to—to know life: to honour life!” 

“In that case we owe each other nothing. We are quits.” 

“Don’t, don’t, Vance.” 

“Good-night, Con. You have played the game true to 
type. You’re great stuff, great!” 

And then, groping, stumbling, Warren reached the door, 
passed out, closing it behind him. 

How they lived through the next few days neither Warren 
nor Constance ever knew. They got through them, that 
was all. It was morning and evening of the first day, morn¬ 
ing and evening of the second day, and then common sense 
came to the rescue. 

“There is just one thing, dear,” Constance said, “and we 
must accomplish that.” 

“The getting of light?” Warren replied. “Well, I have 
some light; I can bear more.” 

“Don’t, dear.” 

“I won’t, Con.” 

The tower studio was turned into an operating room. 

“And when the ugly business is over,” Warren pleaded, 
“just move me over by the south window. When I look out 
I’d like to see the hills from that point.” 

“Verity is coming, Vance.” 

“Verity? Why Verity?” 

“Oh, she’s so healthily young and irrepressible. I felt 
that she would tone us up.” 

“Queer old Con! Always starting something to see what 
will happen.” 

The nurses arrived first—quiet, well-trained machines. 
They knew exactly what to do, and did it. 

Then came Verity, breezily, as if eager to be on the scene just 


174 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


when the miracle of light came. Never for an instant did 
she suggest that disaster was possible. She took for granted 
that success had been achieved, and rather magnificently, 
if a bit arrogantly, planned for the future. 

She sang and laughed; she filled the house with flowers; 
she flouted anxiety. She donned breeches and flannel shirt 
and scoured the hills; she relieved Nancy Goodall, by sitting 
with Jonas, and humoured the old man, who by the day was 
growing childish. He had never recovered from his hurt 
in the woods. Every time he alluded to his accident he had 
a new version, and presently he became fantastic. 

“I alias did say that that old Spread Eagle would git us 
into trouble,” he mumbled, “and it has. I was acoming 
down the trail and the blamed old bird swooped and clapped 
me with its right wing. There’s powerful strength in the 
wing of an eagle—and—and—a gander.” 

Verity laughed as she listened. “Never mind, Uncle Jonas, 
we’ll clip the eagle’s wing.” 

“Better not. Taking a bull by the horns ain’t in it with 
tackling a bald eagle.” 

Verity’s spirits never flagged, and day by day she drew 
nearer to Constance until age, experience, all differences were 
obliterated. They were two women—Verity, perhaps, the 
elder of the two. 

“ Lean hard, Connie dear,” the girl would say. “ Let me do 
the upstanding stunt.” And Constance leaned hard. 

Then the doctors came, two of them, and a young assistant. 
They bustled in and out with that awful trained cheerfulness 
that grated on sensitive nerves. 

“Good God!” groaned Warren. “Do they think they are 
bucking me up ?” 

“As if you needed it!” cried Verity. 

The night before the operation Warren dropped his light, 
mocking manner and for one never-to-be-forgot moment his 
sightless eyes seemed to look into Constance’s. 

“My dear,” he whispered, with exquisite tenderness, “I 
haven’t damned life for you, have I?” 

“No, no, Vance. Never that!” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


175 

“I’m glad, for you have given me the most beautiful thing 
I ever knew. It is something to be glad for, this feeling that 
in awakening you I did not shock you. It will all come out 
right in some way. Let us hold to that.” 

“Oh, my dear, my dear!” And now Constance dared 
touch him. She leaned over him and pressed her lips to 
his shining hair. “You see, some women hunger for knowl¬ 
edge—and cannot bear it when it comes,” she whispered. 

“I’m glad to have had the little talk, Con. I think I under¬ 
stand you better than another might. You pretty, cold, sex¬ 
less thing!” 

“No, no, Vance! I cannot stand such talk now. We must 
wait for all that until later.” 

And it was right here that Verity proved her mettle. She 
had never been stronger, firmer, or cheerier in her life. The 
old gift of healing seemed to have returned to her finger tips. 
When she saw Warren’s brows contract, with a magic touch 
she smoothed the pain and perplexity. 

“Don’t press against the lines, Vance,” she said, smoothing 
the broad forehead. “The lines are safeguards. Against 
them your effort cannot count. It just takes it out of you— 
the lines are taut. There, now—a long breath. Isn’t it 
great to know the lines are there marking our limit? I’ve 
learned that at school. To-morrow will soon be over. 
There, now!” 

“Thanks, Verity. You are hypnotizing me!” 

“Nonsense! And you can laugh if you want to, Vance. 
But all the same there is something, quite outside our ever¬ 
lasting push and pull, that can put anything over.” 

And having driven, for the time, the dark devils away, peace 
followed. 

Then came the day of the operation! Nurses and doctors 
moved about noiselessly; the sun shone unheeded in the quiet 
house. 

Sitting apart, Verity fancied a dramatic aftermath. There 
would be days of suspense; days of bandages and forced 
cheerfulness. “But on the day when he sees”—so the girl 
planned—“Constance must be alone with him. He must 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


176 

see her face first. What are years!” This was flung out 
defiantly. “ She is the dearest ever, and lovely beyond words. 
She’s young, too; frightfully young, compared to him. She 
somehow seems to have escaped living. Of course, there will 
have to be readjustments. There is fear between them, but 
that won’t last. It will be quite thrilling—the thrillingest 
romance I ever encountered.” 

But great events do not always occur as fancy depicts. 

Warren passed through the operation in splendid shape. 
Just as he was losing control of himself, under ether, he 
remarked with his perplexing laugh: “Only a coward lets go, 
eh? Then he flung out defiantly: “We’ll see!” 

He came out of ether, silent and grim. Then while the 
bandages held all possible light from him he chafed, grew 
restless, almost peevish. He had expected quicker results. 

On the day that he was permitted to try his eyes, doctors 
and nurses, as well as Constance and Verity, were in the 
room. As it happened, Constance had her back to him, not 
knowing the critical moment. The doctors were absorbed 
in their case, not in the dramatic effects. 

“I can see that it isn’t dark!” Warren said thickly. 

That was all that mattered to him or the surgeons. “ Bully!” 
said one of them. “Now, then, Warren, back you go into 
your closet for a day or so.” 

As it turned out, a week elapsed. 

The next time the bandages were removed, Warren held 
Constance’s hand and moved to the window; he was saving 
his strength for an out-of-door glimpse. 

“Everything is blurred,” he said, disappointedly. “It 
looks a mess!” 

“Can you see nothing, Vance? Look!” Constance 
asked. 

“I see something moving. It’s a long-legged boy—or 
is it something else? My God! Is this all that seeing means 
for me?” 

It was Verity coming up the Five Winds Hill that Vance 
Warren saw! Verity in her knickerbockers and sweater. 

“My dear, my dear!” Constance comforted, “you 


are 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


177 

getting on beautifully. It must come gradually, this sight 
of yours, and you must learn to use it.” 

“On the old job, Con. Egging a fellow on. It’s all right, 
dear. Em not in the dark, anyway.” 

They did not seem man and woman, husband and wife— 
they were merely humans. 

At Constance’s request Verity sent a telegram to Austen 
after the operation. It was worded in Verity’s style. Aus¬ 
ten understood, smiled, and drew a long breath. 

“Let there be light—and there was light!” 

“Well, that’s over!” Lewis exclaimed, as Austen handed 
the yellow slip to him. 

“Yes, that’s over!” Austen looked grave. 

“Well, what about it, Barney?” 

“I don’t know, Ted. I suppose it is the relief, and other 
things, but all day I’ve smelled the woods; seen fish in clear 
water and felt the moss under my feet.” This was irrelevant. 

“Beat it!” advised Lewis, understandingly. 

“Verity has an invitation to spend six weeks with her pal 
in the Adirondacks,” Austen went on. “If she accepts, I 
think I’ll take to the open.” 

“Why wait for that?” Lewis asked. “Send her scoot¬ 
ing to the mountains or fix her up somewhere else. Why 
doesn’t she stay with Mrs. Warren?” 

“I think she will prefer the Adirondacks later, Ted, now 
that Warren is out of his trouble.” 

“All right, old man, use me if you want to.” 

“Can you stick to the office until September, Ted?” 

“Sure thing. You couldn’t wedge me off.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


T HERE was a great deal of business to attend to before 
Austen made his final arrangements. 

While he cared little for social affairs, he had, of 
late, perhaps with an eye to Verity’s definite future, in¬ 
dulged rather more freely. He had joined a golf club; ac¬ 
cepted dinner invitations, gone to conventions—and these 
activities all seemed to focus during the weeks when he was 
most strenuously seeking to arrange his affairs in orderly 
fashion. 

More and more, Lewis had become his right-hand man. 
As far as he could drop his own responsibilities he felt that he 
could drop them upon Lewis, but he conscientiously sought 
to make the load as light as possible. 

However, at the best, he was obliged to postpone his visit 
to Coverly and gain most of his information of what was 
going on there from Verity’s rather frivolous letters and 
Constance’s restrained ones. The latter puzzled Austen. 
A definite change of tone marked them. 

“I must hurry up there,” he thought, and hurried to the 
limit of his strength. But it seemed as if Fate, seeing so able 
a worker, laid on the task in sardonic humour. 

And while every nerve was strained, a sudden thought of 
Mary Carlin got wedged in his mind and could not be dis¬ 
lodged. 

Looking back over the past few years he became suddenly 
amazed at his attitude toward the sad creature. While 
mentally accepting the bond that held them—and more and 
more he realized his type, the type that doggedly goes on 
even while inclination and longing tug—having accepted, 
he had refrained from asking questions; had taken for granted 
that unchanged conditions prevailed. He had even given 

178 


SMOTHERED FIRES 179 

up the grim hope of release by death. What did it matter, 
one way or another? 

That line of argument roused something in Austen: some¬ 
thing that combated; insisted. 

Strangely enough, he did what he had never done before: 
consulted, hypothetically, two or three lawyers as to the 
legal and ethical aspects of a case like his and Mary Carlin’s. 
While the men listened respectfully so long as he held the 
matter to legal snarls and possible quicksands, they lost in¬ 
terest when he touched upon the moral aspect. 

“No sensible man should be held by that kind of damnable 
nonsense—not mentally, morally, or spiritually.” That was 
the verdict. 

And still Austen could not shake off the dead hold. The 
moral, or perhaps it was the sentimental, aspect held him. 

“I’m damnably tired,” he argued, “and cannot see straight. 
Since I’m not able, apparently, to act , why re-hash the ugly 
matter?” 

But nothing ever happens suddenly in life, if signs and 
symbols are observed; and Austen was, like the most, being 
lashed to a spar even while he contemplated the wreck—the 
old, forsaken wreck. 

There were hours when, in his weary, half-sick wakefulness, 
he recalled—or was recalled by—the memory of his girl 
wife. From this aspect of his suffering he revolted. That 
should not hamper him. No, by God! 

But why was he unable to leave the case now, of all times, 
to Lewis? Was he, again, contemplating freedom? 

“I want to clear the way for Verity,” he argued, even 
while his mind dwelt upon Constance and Vance Warren. 

“What’s going to happen when--” Verity’s letters and 

Constance’s were unnerving him. 

The best he could accomplish at the moment was to think of 
Mary Carlin as Mary Carlin, and then he could humanly re¬ 
gard his suffering. 

And so, after a big dinner one night, he strolled under 
the calm summer skies to Lewis’s apartment. He looked 
up, saw lights burning, and took the elevator. He had no 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


180 

particular object in view—he simply went. As Lewis had 
a key to his apartment, so Austen had one to Lewis’s. 

Austen made as much noise as a man decently could when 
he entered the rooms, but Lewis did not hear him. 

With his feet on the sill of a window looking out on the 
starry night, Lewis, pipe in mouth, Scruff at his knee, was 
basking in the atmosphere of home. It was only when Aus¬ 
ten laid his hand on his shoulder that he came with a crash, 
spiritual, as well as physical, to earth. 

The dog growled. His tail had been included in the descent 
and he resented it. 

“By the Lord Harry!” Lewis exclaimed. “Where did 
you come from?” 

“A dinner at the Lawyers’ Club.” 

“Disagree with you?” 

“Not exactly, but I’m rounding things up, and there is 
one item I must tackle. What is new about that Carlin 
case?” 

Lewis could, on occasions, be diplomatic and evasive, but 
with Austen he was as simple and direct as a child. He was 
startled now into frank statements. 

“Well, Barney, we’re free of her.” There was a touch of 
defiance in the tone that escaped Austen. 

“Has she died?” he asked, in a hoarse whisper. 

“No. She couldn’t seem to do that. They made it easy 
for her up there, and I got her release. I meant to tell you 
before you went away. I only waited until things eased up.” 

This was mere sparring for time. 

“Got her release! Where in God’s name is she?” 

“In England.” This casually, as if it disposed of the 
matter. 

“England? When did she go? Come, let us have the 
story.” 

And now Lewis was stricken, as he had been more than once 
during his term of service for Mary Carlin, with a sense of 
impotence that angered him. 

“See here, Barney,” he blurted, and leaned forward over his 
clasped hands while he regarded Austen’s blank, drawn face, 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


181 


“that was my case; you felt that I might arrange certain de¬ 
tails because, as the woman’s lawyer, I presumably would be 
able to do so. If you had any interest in the matter you trusted 
me. I have asked for no more information than you vouch¬ 
safed and I have done my best. When the papers came my 
one thought was to get the poor creature off the stage. I 
was tired of her; damnably worn out with her, if you want the 
truth.” 

Austen regarded Lewis as he might a masquerader. He 
was not sure of the assumed disguise. 

“Of course I trusted you,” he said dully. “Of course I 
realize that it was your case, but I had taken your confidence 
for granted. Have you the woman’s address? I suppose 
you provided funds?” 

Lewis weakened at sight of Austen’s very evident anxiety. 

“The funds were all right—the money at my disposal— 
I understood that it was hers—it has been given her. She 
was not over-reaching. She was glad of her freedom on any 
terms. I do not know tier address. She refused to give it. 
After all, the woman, once she was set free, had the privileges 
of freedom. The Lord knows I did not want to hold her 
leash.” 

There was a poignant silence. It affected the dog as lurking 
danger might have. He whined, licked Lewis’s hand, then 
turned to Austen. Neither of the men took any notice of 
him, and he sat on his haunches and gave an incipient howl. 

“Shut up!” commanded Lewis. 

Then from out the silence words came. They were simple 
enough, but each statement had its black shadow as a tangi¬ 
ble thing might have. 

“Ted, Mary Carlin was— is —my wife!” 

That glaring statement stood out against the court scene— 
the night in the cell. Words merely explained what Lewis 
was seeing. 

“Good God!” he muttered. 

“She’s Verity’s mother. I should perhaps have told you 
all this before. Somehow, I couldn’t. I’m that kind of dumb 
animal.” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


182 

“I knew”—and now Lewis threw his bomb—“that she was 
Verity’s mother. That was why I had to get rid of her, why 
I thought that it was peculiarly my job.” 

“Mary Carlin told you that?” 

“Yes.” 

“Was that all she told you?” 

“Yes, Barney. It nearly knocked me out, but-” 

“And you were sheltering Verity?” 

“Yes, as you have done.” 

“I see.” Austen got up, paced the floor, as was his way 
when deeply stirred, then came back and faced Lewis grimly. 

“I’d like to tell you something of the past, Ted, in order 
that we may tackle the future together. It’s never easy for 
me to talk when another is involved—it was that more than 
anything else that shut my lips. It’s so infernally impossi¬ 
ble to be fair.” 

Then, while Lewis sat rigid, his hearing, apparently, the only 
sense in action, Austen laid bare the past. Fiercely holding to 
what justice he could, he spoke openly. 

“She is—she always was—a dangerous woman, Ted; a 
small cloud to cast such a black shadow, but it is her shifting 
that makes the trouble. To her, a lie and the truth are in¬ 
different factors. She uses them as they seem to indicate 
their power to gain her ends.” 

This bold statement took courage—Austen was dealing with 
the matter now from Lewis’s standpoint and Verity’s. He 
eliminated himself as far as thought went. 

“She was once very beautiful. She had that quality of the 
man’s woman. God! how women would spurn that title if 
they only knew what it means! Why are they men’s women ? 
Why? Men don’t realize themselves until it is too late. 
She had the power to blind while she worked her spell. 
When sight came, her power was gone; but her menace, the 
fear of what she might do, remained. She had risked her 
reputation with the man afterward known as Delmar. He 
was Tilden when I knew him. She believed herself betrayed 
by Tilden and I saw my chance to get her; get what I wanted 
of her; what I lied about to myself until after I got her. I 



SMOTHERED FIRES 


183 

had at least bought her gratitude, I hoped, when I saved her 
name and gave her a home! “God!” Again Austen got up 
and walked the length of the room and came back. Lewis did 
not move. 

“And then, when Tilden called her, she fled like a cur to its 
master that had beaten it. She lied about the child—said 
that it was Tilden’s. Everything went smash. When I 
could crawl from under the debris I came East. The East 
was my people’s home: I made it mine. That’s about all, 
except when, later, I met a woman I wanted for every other 
reason than the one that held me to my wife, Mary Carlin 
stretched out her menacing hand, threatened after she had 
pleaded, and caught me again. Naturally she had been 
deserted; had sunk lower and lower. I tried to find her at 
that time; meant to free myself for ever, but she had changed 
her name. That is one of her tricks. She changes her name 
with her abode, her mood. It’s damnable. But there is 
always the spark of divinity, I suppose, in the lowest—Mary 
Carlin loved her child, shielded it, protected it. It was that 
that compelled me to undertake the course I have followed 
since that night in the cell.” 

“How do you know it is your child, Barney?” 

The words were wrung from Lewis as if mortal agony gave 
them birth. He meant now to have everything that lay in 
his power to get. 

“How do we ever know truth ? When she confessed, in the 
cell, I doubted at first, but there seems to be, along with 
the spiritual spark in us, a something that cannot be fooled; 
something that knows truth—just truth.” 

Austen bent his head. 

“I’ve got to find Mary Carlin, Ted,” he went on, “for Ver¬ 
ity’s sake. There must be no deeper shadow on the girl’s 
life than can be prevented. That’s the hell for us men when 
we get old enough to see what we’ve done in our blind passion. 
We see what we’ve let others in for. They have to pay our 
debts.” 

Lewis leaned farther toward Austen. Slowly he unclasped 
his clenched hands and reached out. 


184 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“There doesn’t seem to be anything to say, Barney”; he 
faltered. “Is there anything I can do?” 

“Only stand by, old chap. I see that you are standing by 
in a rather splendid way—about Verity. I haven’t done you 
justice. I will clean this thing up, if I can. It is up to me 
finally, for all my shirking. I am going to Coverly. After 
that I’ll talk it over with you—the future plan. Trace 
Mary Carlin if you can. It sounds maudlin, but I’ve got to 
have the hills. I’ll get my bearings there.” 

Both men stood up and shook hands, and Austen strode 
toward the door. There he paused. 

“I had a letter from Verity to-day, Ted. She’s going 
direct to the Adirondacks. She’s taken the bit in her teeth.” 

“Barney, is it Mrs. Warren?” Lewis’s face twitched. “I 
mean in—your life?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, this is a hell of a world with its undercuts!” And 
somehow the words were fraught with comfort. 

Soon after Austen departed, Lewis invited his dog to climb 
into his lap. The creature was absurdly large for such a 
position, but size does not limit the craving for affection nor 
the close human contact. 

Man and dog looked into each other’s eyes and, unrebuked, 
the animal moistly lapped Lewis’s face. 

“ Do you know, old chap, I bet you a marrow bone to a wag 
of your stumpy tail that there is some way out of this. Good 
God! Think what he has been through. If there wasn’t 
some way out, there isn’t a God or what He stands for.” 

The dog writhed sympathetically. 

Lewis pursed his lips and nodded his head. “Some story, 
or I miss my guess.” 

Then, holding Scruff’s head close: “Old pup, you’d better 
thank your everlasting good fortunte that you are a pup, 
fleas and all.” 

And while Lewis orated to his dog, Constance, walking 
beside Verity on the piazza of Five Winds, answered some 
direct questions, while her steady eyes looked straight before 
her. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 185 

“Constance, is everything all right now that Vance can 
see ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ I’m glad. I feared that it was more than anxiety that has 
changed you so.” 

“Am I changed?” 

“Yes. You make me think-” 

“What do you think?” 

“I can hardly put it into words.” 

“Try. I want you to try.” 

Then so suddenly that Constance started: 

“You made me think that you were frightened because 
Vance saw.” 

“Verity!” A vibrating silence followed. Then: 

“I suppose there are many kinds of love, Constance, besides 
the one that counts.” 

“There is only one that should ever count.” 

“And that one is-?” Verity looked afar into the 

summer night. 

“The one that holds honour!” The words had the ring 
of clanking chains. 

“Yes.” This came fiercely from Verity. “I suppose we 
all snarl up the matter by calling things love that are not love 
at all. That’s why it’s so rotten to hold folks when they make 
a mistake. There’s no other relation between men and 
women that cannot be ended when you see your mistake, 
but this one-” 

Constance winced at the vague, hot words. 

“We should pay for our mistakes,” she said faintly. “We 
cannot let them slip and run from them. Besides, they may 
only seem mistakes.” 

“But living together, Constance, paying that way. Oh, 
good heavens! What good can come of that?” The terrify¬ 
ing frankness of the girl had an electric effect. 

Constance had a beaten, tragic look. Every instinct bade 
her control the situation she was letting slip. 

“Unless they both can agree to break the bargain,” she 
said, limpingly, “the bargain holds.” 


i86 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“That sort of talk, Constance, is what is making girls like 
me shy at marriage. It’s too big a risk on such bad terms.” 

A laugh, almost sneering, made Constance recoil. She 
could still struggle weakly. 

“Don’t!” she pleaded. “Girls like you are so—so hard to 
us who have tried to set the standard, have held it aloft 
in spite of everything.” 

“We each must have our own standard. No one has a 
right to assume that his own is above attack.” Verity 
sounded as old as the ages. 

“But if we have tried, Verity—tried and suffered—doesn’t 
that count ?” 

“It shouldn’t with the big thing in view.” 

“The big thing? What is the big thing?” 

“Being the best that is in you: not being snuffed out by 
others and their ideals.” 

“Verity, listen. Just listen.—I am not trying to control 
your thought. I only want to urge you to control it yourself. 
—But listen to me. In your quest for happiness, independ¬ 
ence, and that big thing you feel you understand, don’t make 
Barney suffer any more than you can help. He has suffered 
enough—through me.” 

So earnestly had Constance spoken that she had drifted 
from her own self-control. 

“You mean—” Verity was aghast. She was terrified by 
what she had torn the veil from—“you mean, that Barney 
and you-” 

“Yes.” 

“Barney and you! I-Oh! Why have you let it come 

to this?” 

Wretchedness shook Verity. She was dissecting something 
with fumbling, unskilled hands. 

“There was a woman in his life—a bad woman—but he 
held to his ideal. He couldn’t help it. He is that kind!” 
The words sounded piteous. “And then I married Vance; 
we mustn’t talk of that, Verity—only—well, I’m that kind, 
too. The kind that Barney is.” 

“And see where all this has brought you!” Verity 


SMOTHERED FIRES 187 

drew back. The gesture had power to rally Constance’s 
forces. 

“I—I never should have permitted myself to talk so to 
you,” she faltered. “My only excuse is that you frightened 
me by your recklessness. There has been enough suffering.” 

“Don’t!” pleaded Verity before the pitiless glance of the 
woman’s eyes. “Don’t!” Then: “We’re doing the best 
we can, Constance, our poor best. If we fail, we still must 
hold to that just as you have. Oh, you must believe that!” 

Verity’s face went white. Her eyes grew moist. Her lips 
trembled. 

“Oh, my dear, my dear!” she went on, as if she , not 
Constance, had fallen by the way. “How—how little you 
make me feel!” 

Constance turned, took her in her arms. “You blessed!” 
she said. “That’s the loveliest thing you’ve ever said. 
It isn’t true, but the sound of it is heavenly. God bless you, 
Verity, and keep you always as you are now—trying to find 
the way. Perhaps you will.” 

“I don’t know.” Verity’s words came muffled from the 
shoulder against which she pressed. “I suppose this is 
what—life means—just trying to—to find the way through 
it, without hurting our souls too much. But you, Con¬ 
stance—what are you going to do?’” 

“Go on trying to find the way and not hurting my soul, or 
the souls of others, too much.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


T HE dignity and reticence of youth—and this applied 
to both Constance and Verity—held them, after that 
soul-talk, in a vise-like aloofness. 

They seemed feverishly eager to fill every moment of the 
day with matters destined to separate them from that hour of 
revealment. Verity, when Constance relaxed, devoted her¬ 
self to Vance Warren. He laughed uneasily at times and 
pleaded to be left alone. Sensitive to environment, he 
resented what he could not understand. When service to 
Warren was eliminated, Nancy and Jonas were fallen back on. 

Long, lonely walks gave both Constance and Verity time for 
thought, and that presently brought them close again, but 
without confidences. 

“Keep ofF!’' Verity rigidly demanded of herself. “None 
of your beastly dissecting now.” 

“Perhaps I have gone too far,” Constance sadly reflected. 
“It’s quite possible I may turn the girl from Barney in my 
efforts to save him from her. Youth is so sensitive and deli¬ 
cate. She has thought of him as exempt; set apart. Can she 
see him close and human ? It’s always so different with our 
own—the sacred, human emotions.” 

A letter from Austen drove Verity, at this time, to her 
course of going away alone. It read: 

Perhaps you had better wait until I come, for after my visit I am 
going abroad. When I return, Verity, you and I will have a full talk 
about your mother, your father, your future. 

Verity shrank as if a touch had fallen upon an exposed 
nerve. She did not want to see Barney—she wanted 
strangers. She'd been torn open enough—seen too much of 
others' hidden sores. She wanted to forget certain things, 

188 


SMOTHERED FIRES 189 

or at least get used to them, before she gripped reality again. 
In her sanest moments she planned. 

When school was over—another year would round out her 
school life—she would refuse college. 

‘Til tackle my job myself then,” she vowed; “learn a 
trade. Anything but this.” By this , she meant her con¬ 
tact with Austen’s private affairs. “Eve been blindfolded 
long enough. Do folks know what they have done to me 
while keeping things from me? I want my own; to be my¬ 
self, no matter what that means, and then-” 

Verity thought in terms of blasphemy just at that point. 
Her nerves were ragged from emotion, and Vance, Constance, 
and Austen played upon them cruelly. 

She wanted to run and have a spree, as she called it; a high 
fling, anything to shake her out of the doldrums. Jane 
and Jack Terrell and their crowd she believed could save 
her at this crisis if anything could. 

“They never read the minutes of the last meeting!” 
she thought. “One world at a time for them.” 

So she fled. Her abrupt departure was little less than 
that, but Constance did not resent it, though Vance did. 

Constance wanted, when Austen came, to be free, to be 
herself, to be safe from criticism. Vance recoiled from 
being left to face the perplexity of his state of mind with 
Constance and Austen at close range. But there seemed 
nothing for him to do but play his part awhile longer. 

So Verity went to the Adirondack camp and Austen came 
to Coverly. 

By that time Vance Warren was walking about without a 
cane and seeing life dimly, through dark glasses. He was 
thin, but there was a suggestion of health and strength about 
him that had been lacking before. The look of one returning 
to port, not outward bound. 

Constance puzzled Austen. She looked well—she was 
much in the open, and her skin was sun-tanned and wind- 
coloured, but she looked—and here Austen drew his brows 
together—frightened! “All her pretty poem,” he thought, 
“is being transposed into prose. Her years count, now that 


I go 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


Warren can see. She probably fancies what he does not 
mean. A woman would. She’ll put notions in his head, if 
she doesn’t look out.” 

Warren’s attitude toward Constance was perfect. With¬ 
out in any way hampering her, he seemed to live only in her 
presence. 

“I wonder if he’s overdoing it?” Austen thought, and 
then damned himself for his ignoble suspicion. 

The sweet old home life ran on, with the swift undercur¬ 
rent ignored. There were hours when Warren rested or sat 
in the tower room, “ scribbling,” as he explained. 

At such times Constance planned walks on the mountains 
or went with Austen to the Lower Farm to visit the Goodalls. 

“Take Aunt Nancy out, Barney,” she often pleaded. 
“The poor dear is killing herself, nursing Jonas. I’ll sit 
with him while you make Aunt Nancy forget. Make her 
laugh.” 

And Austen did his best, for this gave his presence another 
excuse. 

When evening came and the broad door of Five Winds was 
opened to the west, he, Constance, and Vance would often 
watch the purple shadows fill the valley. Sometimes Con¬ 
stance brought forth the violin and Warren sang delight¬ 
fully. Once or twice he read, rather hesitatingly, what he 
had scribbled in the tower room: fragments of verse depict¬ 
ing Italy as his boyish eyes had seen it while they were, as 
he had believed, growing dim as death crept near. “Past 
Dreams,” he called them. And there were other bits on 
“Italy Regained.” These scribblings caught Austen’s 
attention. 

“You must try to place these things, Warren,” he sug¬ 
gested. 

“You mean publish them?” 

“Yes.” 

Warren laughed, but his face flushed. “You think there 
is something in them?” he asked. 

“Yes, I do. I’m no real authority, but I always feel that 
a true cry reaches its goal. Your things please me.” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


191' 


“Thanks.” 

They all seemed drifting into the inevitable. 

A week, ten days, passed. Apparently Austen had seen 
all that he was ever likely to see. Constance, whatever her 
inwar. uoubts were, gave them no voice. She was so 
frankly friendly and, usually, so sunnily happy that Austen 
accepted anew the gift of her friendship and tried, manlike, 
to be grateful. 

Occasionally they talked of Verity, of her developm ent, her 
charm, her independence; but Austen refrained from speak¬ 
ing of his trip to England until his last day. 

And that last day was one that he and Constance Warren 
were never to forget. 

It was such a day as only the mountains know. A north¬ 
west wind swept every cloud from the sky; trees, peaks, and 
soaring birds stood out sharply against a background of deep 
blue. A “weather-breeder”—as the wise knew. 

At breakfast Constance announced that she was going to 
look at a piece of land adjoining her own property that was 
for sale. 

“I have too much land as it is,” she explained, “but this 
offers an opportunity. On my property there is a fine stream, 
on this other land we could build a sawmill, give employment 
to a great many people, take care of our own lumber, and 
make building cheaper. If I keep my own land I ought to 
make it serve others.” 

“Fd like to see the place,” Austen said. “Could we drive 
to it?” He was considering Warren. 

“At the best we couldn’t drive nearer than Dakota Gap. 
There’s a hard two miles after that.” 

“I’m going to burst into verse this morning,” Warren said, 
cheerfully. “Austen has touched my fuse Ly his spark of 
approval. I wouldn’t take the trip you mention for a great 
deal. I prefer castles in Spain to factory sites.” 

“All right. I’ll have a lunch put up and Barney and I 
will be back early in the afternoon.” Constance rose 
briskly. “Shall we walk, Barney, or take the Ford?” 

“Let us walk.” 


192 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


At nine they set forth and at twelve ate their lunch at 
the opening of Dakota Gap. Then, unhampered, went on. 

The trail was dim, for the forest was dense; the quiet was 
broken by voices of birds and trees—the speaking trees. 
The aspen leaves tapped and tapped as if rain were falling; 
the pines, soughing and sighing, reminded one of the surf on 
a distant beach; the twittering birds, each in his own tongue, 
sang, and between the branches of the trees, the warm, di¬ 
rect rays of the sun struck like flaming swords into the 
fragrant gloom. 

“So you really intend to be a business woman, Constance?” 
Austen was feeling strangely excited—though why, he could 
not have told. 

“I mean to be something, Barney, something definite. It 
appeals to me, this idea of helping my own people. Of 
course, I could go to Italy with Vance and start something 
there—help people like him, gifted people who are willing to 
starve and die for the hope that is in them. One sees so 
many of them there.” 

“But you’d rather remain here?” 

“For the most part. Yes, I never realized how deep my 
roots were planted until now.” 

“Of course. And you could visit Italy.” 

“Yes. I’ve been thinking that I might have a—well, a kind 
of studio place over there where Vance could—learn to fly; and 
while he worked I could come home and—work; do such 
things as this sawmill would make possible. My people are 
not exactly friendly”—a pause—“but I want them to be.” 

“I see.” And Austen was seeing a little further than he 
had the right to see. The arrangement looked sterile enough 
to him, and he found himself pitying Warren. He set his 
lips grimly and forged ahead, holding back the lower branches 
of tree or bush so that Constance might pass under. 

Once he noticed, as she lowered her head, the soft curls 
escaping her close cap. This was unsettling to friendship. 
At last they came to the rocky, tumbling brook. 

“It’s quite ferocious in the spring,” Constance explained, 
“deceitful little midsummer brooklet! See, there is the 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


193 


marking of my boundary; let’s take to the stepping stones. 
Heaven protect us from slipping—we’re miles from help. 
We’d have to scramble to that hut over there and wait for a 
passer-by.” 

They reached the other side in safety. 

“And here’s the land they want me to buy. They call it 
Rocky Lonesome. Isn’t that dear?” 

There it lay in the full light of the sun—a meadow at the 
foot of the hills. Constance’s land was almost solid rock. 

“You see, if there were a sawmill built here, Barney, the 
logs could come down direct by the cut. They are bringing 
some down now, I hear, and they have to haul them to a mill 
ten miles away. We could do all the work on the spot—it 
would be a great economy.” 

“Of course.” Austen saw the possibilities. 

“This would be a fine place, too, for cottages; a good 
road could easily be made over a short cut to the village. I 
advise the purchase, Constance. I’d like to go into partner¬ 
ship. I’m taken by the name, too: Rocky Lonesome!” 

Austen was thinking of the hold the business would have 
upon them—it would reinforce her roots; hold her to him and 
give him—excuses. He started guiltily. 

Suddenly Constance turned. Her face was aglow. 

“ I’m going to do it!” Then: “ Barney, it isn’t late. I hear 
the sound of axes, they are working on the hill-top. Let 
us go and see them.” 

So up the cut they climbed, hearing, as they drew near, 
the steady, rhythmic blows of steel on wood. 

“We’ll go down quicker,” Constance said, panting a little. 
“What time is it, Barney?” 

“Three.” 

“I’m afraid we should not have come. I don’t want 
Warren to worry.” 

At the summit they came upon a busy scene. Several men 
were lashing logs together with chains, on runners, while wait¬ 
ing horses stood ready to carry the load down the hill over 
the steep, rough incline. 

“When do you start?” Constance asked the men, and her 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


194 

i 

eyes were wide and daring. “Ed love to ride down on the 
logs. Would you be afraid, Barney? I used to do it when 
I was a child.” 

“I’d like the experience.” Austen kicked the raft with his 
heavy boot. “It’s as solid as a rock,” he added. “What is 
there to be afraid of?” 

“What yer might say—nothing,” one of the teamsters re¬ 
plied. “Such horses as them can be trusted; they was, as 
yer might say, fed and nourished on logs.” 

“Are you driving, Mr. Lake?” Constance smiled up at 
the speaker. 

“I be, Mrs. Warren, and I was driving that time when yer 
was hauled down for the last time. I ain’t never forgot the 
language the old Senator indulged in when he met us at 
the foot!” 

The man and Constance laughed. 

“Well, Em my own mistress now, Mr. Lake. Come, 
Barney! Now for a short cut home.” 

Austen was struck by her sudden high spirits. He had 
rarely seen her in this mood. It brought her girlhood back to 
him. It was contagious: he found himself sharing the sense 
of adventure. 

They stepped on the raft of logs and crouched down close 
together while Lake attached the horses to the raft, arranged 
the chains in such a manner as would serve as brakes, 
and then, gathering the reins in his hands, addressed the 
men. 

“You can shet up shop and go now. There ain’t no more 
hauling this year.” 

“Ain’t yer got too big a load, Mr. Lake?” one man asked, 
scrutinizing the raft critically. 

“Oh, not so yer need notice, Jim. There wasn’t enough 
to lay off for another haul. These be well packed and 
lashed. So ’long!” 

The men took the trail back to their camp. 

At first the movement of the raft was slow, lumbersome, 
and jerky. Constance laughed gaily. 

“About as much danger,” she said, “as sitting on a rock.” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


195 

She looked up at Austen and smiled as if care and perplexity 
were as foreign to her as to a child. 

And then suddenly something happened. No one ever 
knew what caused the slipping of a chain, but slip it did just 
when the down-grade was the steepest. 

Lake gave a muttered oath; spoke sharply to the horses 
and, half turning his head, ordered: 

“Set! Hold tight.” 

Austen mechanically put an arm about Constance and 
they both clung to the logs on which they huddled. 

They did not speak. At first they did not realize what was 
taking place, but the horses knew and Lake knew. In such 
an emergency the only hope of safety is for the horses to 
keep well ahead of the logs. They ran madly, blindingly. 
They kept as near to the middle of the rough road as possible, 
but even so, the raft swung dangerously, bumped against 
tree roots, and creaked ominously. 

Down, down; faster, faster. Once Constance looked at 
Austen. Her face was white and drawn. 

“Barney!” she faltered, and gave a weak, twisted smile. 

Austen drew her closer. He did not smile. 

Just below was the clearing; the horses were leaping and 
plunging. Then with an awful lunge the logs wedged among 
the trees. Austen and Constance were flung into space and 
the horses, loosened from the logs but with Lake still 
clinging to the reins, plunged on. 

Overhead the clouds were gathering; among the hills the 
thunder rolled. Time passed unheeded. Austen and Con¬ 
stance, twenty feet to the right of the road, a few feet from 
each other, lay like the dead with faces upturned. 

It was the splash of rain drops that first brought Austen 
to his senses. For a few minutes he did not move, but his 
mind began to work. Some detached part of him seemed to 
stand aside, watching results, receiving impressions. These 
impressions came like the taps of a telegraph operator: sharp 
and decisive. They each meant a definite thing, but they 
were expressed in code. He recalled the climb up to the 
summit. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


196 

He recalled the “ short cut home.” That impression gave 
him some trouble. “Short cut home.” 

Then he shuddered, sat up slowly. Every movement was 
painful. He looked about after wiping the moisture from his 
face and finding, to his amaze, that it was not blood. 

Then he struggled to his feet—he could stand; he could 
use his arms—his mind was beginning to function; he was dis¬ 
regarding the taps—taps of the code signals; he resorted to 
thought. Then: 

“My God!” he muttered, every sense alert, quickened, and 
stinging. “Constance!” 

He waited, called again, and then stumbled, rather than 
walked, ahead. 

Upon some underbrush that she had carried with her by 
weight, and half hid by bushes dripping already with the 
rain, lay Constance! 

Austen, at the sight, rushed forward. Bruises, pain, the 
fogged brain gave way to the force that concentrated upon the 
one horrifying possibility. He bent over her; felt her pulse, 
her heart, then he spoke her name, imploringly. 

Presently she looked at him without moving bodily, and 
whispered: 

“Barney! Barney!” 

Austen, with some difficulty, raised her and held her against 
his shoulder. The position, the contact gave her strength. 

“It’s raining,” she whispered, “and oh! Barney! my 
ankle!” 

Austen gently placed her upon the ground and tore off her 
shoe and stocking. She was pointing to the right ankle. It 
was badly bruised, it was already swelling, and probably bone 
or ligaments were injured, for at the touch Constance groaned 
and flinched. 

“I must carry you to the hut,” Austen said grimly; “a 
big storm is breaking. Put your arms around my neck. So! 
Now then. I’ll be as gentle as I can. We must get under 
cover.” 

On mossy stones Austen staggered across the brook and 
reached Constance’s land and the woodsman’s hut, which 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


197 


earlier in the day had been pointed out. Inside were a rough 
bed and some bedding; a table, chair, and a fireplace. There 
was enough kindling and rubbish to make a fire later on; for 
the moment, a roof, a bed were all that Austen realized were 
available. He stumbled forward, placed Constance on the 
cot, and dropped exhausted beside it. 

One thing comforted him: he himself was not seriously 
injured, at any rate. His bruises were asserting themselves; 
he felt dizzy and confused—he had probably hit his head 
against a tree—but he would be able, after a few moments, 
to act intelligently. The storm was coming down the hills 
madly, deafeningly. Flashes of bluish lightning ripped the 
growing darkness asunder; the thunder echoed and reechoed. 

For a few moments Austen crouched by the cot, chafing 
Constance’s hands. She had lost consciousness again, but 
almost at once she recovered. 

“Oh! I am sorry, Barney. It’s fearful, isn’t it? The 
storm; the accident—where is Lake?” 

Austen had forgotten Lake, but at his name a vivid picture 
flashed before him. He saw the wild, dashing horses; 
saw Lake clinging, bracing, pitching forward, lurching, but 
keeping the reins in his hands. 

“He never let go the horses. He must have got control, 
I think. He will bring help. Does your ankle pain ?” 

“Yes.” 

“I will bind it up.” Austen found a piece of bedding, tore 
it into strips, and bound the ankle firmly. “It will help 
until we can go on. I wonder”—with new fear—“if you 
are injured in any other way? Here, let me see.” Clumsily, 
gravely Austen made a superficial examination. 

“Arms seem all right—move them, dear. There’s a bad 
scratch on your neck—it is bleeding a little—does it hurt?” 

“No.” Under the groping hand Constance lay still, but 
the pain in her ankle brought the perspiration to her fore¬ 
head. 

“I believe you have been mercifully spared, Constance.” 

“And you, Barney?” 

“I am all right except for a bruise or two.” 


198 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


The storm drowned their voices; the rain leaked through 
the roof; the darkness deepened, the lightning flashed, siz¬ 
zled, and, off in the distance, a tree fell groaningly while the 
thunder snapped, crashed, and rumbled. 

Austen raised his voice against the tumult. “If Lake 
doesn’t come soon, I must go for help.” 

“You must not leave me, Barney. I know what this 
storm means.” Constance reached for his hand and held it. 

“Warren!” The name slipped from Austen’s lips with its 
weight of significance. 

“You shall not leave me. Vance is safe. He must bear 
his share.” 

The words pierced their way into the riot of noises like darts. 

“Bear his share! We’re all in for it, Constance, but we 
must end the misery as soon as possible.” 

“Lake will send help.” Constance closed her eyes. She 
still clung to Austen’s hand. 

The storm sullenly sank into mutterings and sobs; the 
rain increased as the wind fell and the lightning ceased. The 
little brook beside the hut had become a fierce stream and 
bore upon its heaving bosom small bushes, trees, and mossy 
stones. The meadow, where some day the sawmill might 
stand, was a sheet of water, and a dozen rods below—though 
who was there to know it then?—Lake, a crumpled, dead 
mass, lay huddled under an overhanging rock! The horses 
had broken from his hold, had fled, not to the home town, but, 
maddened and blinded by fear, had taken a side course, and 
it was daybreak before their mute message was understood by 
the villagers ten miles from Coverly. But help had come 
before then to Rocky Lonesome. 

Constance and Austen waited in the hut. 

Thought, action, speech, became, as the hours dragged on, 
detached; often unintelligible, then again vivid, startling, 
and almost shocking. At eight o’clock the damp chill in the 
room struck to the bone. 

“I must build a fire!” said Austen. 

Constance let go the hand she held and whispered: “That 
will be nice.” Then she laughed—she was growing feverish, 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


199 


it was difficult to hold steady thought. She was afraid to 
speak; feared that she might say things that she had no right 
to say! Things that were rising like floods in her brain; 
things she wanted to tell Austen but must not! 

The fire, with its light and heat, gave a sense of comfort. 
It quieted her. 

“I’m thirsty, Barney,” she said presently. Austen found 
a tin cup and went outside, just far enough to dip a little 
water from the edge of the rushing brook. 

“Barney!” There was terror in the call. 

“I am right here, my dearest!” It had come to that and 
neither heeded the significance. 

The water on her lips roused Constance. 

“I’m ... a great trouble,” she whispered. “My 
head . . . hurts. You”—desperately—“must not let 

me talk.” 

“I will hold you—so, dear heart. Lean against me.” 
Austen braced himself and Constance leaned against his 
bruised and aching shoulder. Even in the pain he felt the 
glow of happiness that the contact brought. 

Then, and it was like a dream, Constance heard—or 
thought she heard—questions. She did not mean to answer 
them; she had guarded them well; she must go on guarding 
them! 

But if Austen were dying and she wanted him to go out of 
life happy, why then it would not be wrong to answer the 
questions. So she compromised dully. 

Only life made answers impossible. Death! Not the 
quick passing that her father had known. No! She and 
Barney were drifting; drifting slowly, more and more slowly, 
out and out. 

There was time to answer, if she hurried. When they 
reached the other side—the Other Side—it would all be right 
to know. That is what the Other Side was for. Knowing! 
Only this side mattered because of—of vows and responsi¬ 
bilities that were sacred up to the edge of time—but not 
beyond. 

The flashes of conscious thought were like bridges thrown 


200 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


over the black chasm that stretched between Austen and 
Constance; some bridges crashed under them, but some held, 
and over them they reached each other. 

“When you went, I thought you had never cared. A 
woman knows when she loves—perhaps a man doesn’t. I 
knew and it hurt, hurt horribly. I could not speak—I was 
trained—not to speak. They—they called that—self- 
control, character.” A laugh startled Austen. 

“Don’t, beloved! Don’t laugh like that,” he pleaded. 

“And there were other things I wanted to know. Life; 
life. What life meant, what I meant. That longing was 
almost as great as love—the craving for love. I was afraid; 
ashamed of my thoughts. Then I became a coward—I made 
believe—I went far; far, oh! so far, Barney; and after a while, 
where people did not know me, I—well, I think something 
happened. I—I tried to let go, Barney; let go and know . 
But I—I could not. The more I tried, the further back I 
fell on the old, old training. And then—then—I found 
Vance. I said—I wanted to make his two years—happy, 
but there was something else.” 

“You have told me all this before, dear.” Austen tried to 
still the feverish words. 

A movement of the injured foot caused Constance to groan 
and shudder; she tried to lift herself from Austen’s hold, 
but he tightened his grasp. 

“Quiet!” he whispered. “You shall not hurt yourself 
by struggling.” 

“It’s queer, Barney—I’m not sleeping, but I’m hot and 
foggy. Do not let me ramble, please.” 

“Try to sleep, my dear. You are quite, quite safe.” 

After a time another bridge was thrown across the chasm. 

“He—he was wonderful. He made dreams seem true. 
Italy—Italy, and no one caring how foolish it all was. Just 
day by day—and such a beautiful dream. Then the two 
years were gone. I had played God so well-” 

“Constance!” Austen commanded. “Wake up!” 

“Yes, wake up. I did wake up!” 

Silence in the gloomy hut; a dying heart of fire upon 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


201 


the ashy hearth. Austen gently placed Constance on the 
mattress and replenished the fire. He made it roar and 
flame; he stood by it while it gathered force and power. He 
dared not go back to the couch. 

“Barney, come here!” 

The voice was calm; even; controlled. Austen’s fear van¬ 
ished, he went to the bedside and sat down. 

“Well!” 

“Barney—have I—talked—nonsense? I do when I am 
feverish; fever loosens my tongue. What have I said?” 

“You have told me the truth.” 

“No. One doesn’t in fever.” This came piteously, de¬ 
fiantly. 

“You have told me the truth!” Austen meant to have 
that clear. 

“You must forget, then, Barney. Forget.” 

“That cannot be.” 

The heat was stifling; the silence racking to stretched 
nerves. 

“Open the door, Barney. Wide.” 

And when the moist, fragrant air rushed in, it brought 
sanity and healing with it. 

After a while the two dared to speak, man to woman; 
woman to man. 

“No one could hold you to such a bargain, Constance. 
Whatever there was to bind you ended with the two years; 
with his need of you.” 

“He needed me more then, Barney, than ever before, and 
now he needs me most. He has not wakened; he is one who 
can live in dreams for ever. He is such a—boy.” 

“Then you must waken him. It is your plain duty.” 

“He loves me, Barney. Loves me as he has created me; 
he needs me.” 

“It is a wrong to him. You dishonour him in not giving 
him the opportunity to be a man.” 

“And then, what?” Constance’s white, haggard face con¬ 
fronted Austen. “It is not goodness that holds me, Barney. 
I am not overcoming temptation, dear. But what then?” 


202 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“Can you ask that, Constance?” 

“Yes. Oh, Barney, I can ask it of you. Ties cannot be 
lightly shaken off —you know that well, my dear, my dear. 
You bore your part because you had to, being you . Oh, 
Barney, it is only when you are that you can he, and you and 
I are as we are—as life has made us. We—we have broken 
down the bars, dear, but we—have no way of escape; we 
must go on, on, as best we can. To break away in order to 
gain my own happiness, even to give you yours, my dearest, 
would end only one way for us, Barney. We couldn’t do it 
and find our happiness; to us it would not be happiness.” 

“We might chance it; others have. You and I have been 
denied much because we are, as you say, as we are. Has it 
paid?” Austen spoke bitterly. 

“Whether it has paid or not, Barney, I do not know. I’ve 
got to chance that and so have you. We couldn’t turn our 
backs—it wouldn’t do any good.” 

There was a longer silence. Then Austen spoke irritably. 
The strain was telling upon him. 

“Why, in God’s name, doesn’t Warren start something! 
Where does he think you are, I wonder? You and I?” 

“I—I had not thought about that.” Constance moved, 
groaned, and fell back. “I only thought of him, not what 
he might think of me.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


W HAT had happened at Five Winds House was easily 
explained. 

Until three o’clock Warren followed his usual daily 
regime when alone. 

After a late breakfast he paced the broad piazzas for an 
hour, revelled in the bliss of seeing “as through a glass 
darkly,” to be sure, the lovely hills and valleys, the fast- 
moving clouds, the swaying trees. This joy in beholding 
movement was one of the ecstasies of vision. 

Then at noon he went up to the tower room and tried 
to write; instead, he drew a chair close to the west window 
and thought. Again and again he came to the same dead wall. 

He was awake, poor fellow, but was facing the necessity 
of feigning sleep. Only by using his dreams as shields could 
he go on. He must fall upon this shield as truly as any war¬ 
rior ever fell. 

How was he to escape from bondage and, at the same time, 
leave others free? 

For hours Warren beat upon his blank wall. He believed 
that he had eliminated the poison of old Jonas’s gossip, but it 
still flowed sluggishly under his sadder mood. 

His limitations baffled not only him, but others. He 
might go—but where? That question would confront Con¬ 
stance as well as him. He was still too hampered physically 
to struggle for existence; not that he specially clung to ex¬ 
istence, but if he perished dramatically in his endeavour to do 
the one and decent thing, what then? 

He was no coward, but the Open Door often seemed to him 
a possibility not to be lightly discarded because ofmouthings. 
What did happy, independent folk know of the bitterness of 
such a lot as his? 


203 


204 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


And then Warren thought of Verity. How she “ mouthed”; 
how everyone who had not been placed on the rack, or who 
had not plunged into a trap, could mouth! That was the 
trouble. The safe, the protected, the ignorant had always 
set the pace and made rules and codes for themselves, and 
they did not need them: it was the other lot—people like him 
—who could show them a rule or two! 

And then, if he were able to strike out for himself, would 
he not make others appear brutal? What remained? If he 
demanded freedom for himself and Constance, how could it be 
achieved? What could he do; what could she do to satisfy 
the bestial code that fixed the toll of freedom ? 

“Bah! Freedom, justice, decency, common sense—where 
were they?” 

And this brought Warren again to the dead wall. 

“And I—I cannot be bought off, damn it!” he muttered: 
“even if she wanted to do it. A fine figure of a man I am, 
indeed! Oh, no one need envy me my ease and comfort!”— 
and now Warren was thinking of old Jonas and what he 
represented. “That is what they are all thinking even if 
they dare not speak it as that drunken fool did.” 

Occasionally Warren’s thought turned to his aunt. At 
least a tie of blood held them. If he could be financed until 
. . . but Warren flinched from begging—it would amount 

to that—from one who had begrudged every dollar spent 
upon him in the past; who regarded Constance as a life-saver 
and who would, undoubtedly, spurn simple fact and place 
Constance in a disgraceful position. He floundered on. 

“My God!” 

At four o’clock Warren got up to walk off his nervous con¬ 
dition. At four-thirty he began to be anxious. Where were 
Constance and Austen ? 

He went downstairs, called a servant, and made her repeat 
the message Constance had left. 

“Do you know where the land is that Mrs. Warren went to 
see?” 

The woman tried to inform him, but his own ignorance of 
the locality made the effort unavailing. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


205 


“Have the car brought around,” he ordered, and then re¬ 
called, faintly, Constance’s words about the bad roads, rough 
climbing. However, when the car came he got in and or¬ 
dered that he be driven as near the meadow land for which 
Constance had started as possible. 

A young boy drove the car. He was a safe enough driver 
when all went well, but all did not go well. Where the road 
ended, the boy discovered that something was wrong with 
the engine, but he rashly thought that he would “fix” it, if 
Warren would wait. 

The storm was then breaking and, restless and anxious, 
Warren sat in the closed car, smoked, grew more anxious 
while the bungling fellow on his back under the machine 
wrought further damage. 

At last he emerged, black, oily, and beaten, only to an¬ 
nounce that he would have to go for help, and that the 
nearest house was three miles away! 

“How far is it to that damned pasture land?” Warren 
asked, angrily. 

“It might be a mile or two.” The boy resented Warren’s 
attitude; besides, he was afraid of the storm and did not like 
the prospect before him. 

“Is there anything like a road leading to it?” Austen 
stepped from the car only to realize that the rain had begun 
in earnest and that the thunder and lightning were gaining 
force with the minutes. 

“There’s a plain trail, barring the underbrush,” the boy 
told him, “but you better stay under cover, Mr. Warren. 
You can’t help any way at all by getting killed or something, 
and this here storm is like to be a regerlar one, by gorry.” 

“You get on to the nearest house,” Warren ordered. 
“Have the car fixed, if possible. We’ll probably need it. 
I’ll go up the trail, and I’ll keep to the trail even if I have to 
find shelter, so when you return, if I’m not here, follow me. 
Do you understand?” 

The boy did, but his words were lost in the crash of thunder 
that seemed to let loose the deluge. With head bent and 
hands outstretched Warren took to the trail. It was a mad 


206 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


thing he was doing but it had the effect of uplift. He felt as 
he had the day he had knocked Goodall down; a sense of 
proving his soul. Warren laughed at this. 

Presently, breathing hard and drenched to the skin, he 
paused, took off his glasses, wiped them and put them in his 
pocket. 

Nothing mattered now; at least, details did not. The water 
on his spectacles made him blinder than he would be without 
them. His eyes must take their chances, for very definitely 
Warren felt now that something serious was ahead. His 
face, pale, set, and anxious, was lifted to the storm. It was 
only possible to go a few yards at a stretch. Still he was 
going on—on and up. It was easier without the befogged 
glasses. 

As darkness deepened and the trail grew narrower and 
steeper, Warren stumbled and fell several times. Once he hit 
his head, and that brought on a dizziness. He never knew 
how much time that cost him. He was bearing his share as 
Constance had said he must. 

At last he dared to go on. He was, to his own surprise, 
conserving his strength; he did not intend to complicate mat¬ 
ters. This was intuitive, not planned. 

When he reached the brook, he was, for a moment, dis¬ 
mayed. How was he to cross? He did not see the hut. 
He could see, however, by the lightning flashes, a level space 
on the other side of the rushing water. 

“That must be the pasture,” he rightly thought, and stood 
holding to a tree, calculating his chances if he plunged into 
the stream. For a few moments blank discouragement over¬ 
powered him; then desperation. If he did not go forward, 
he must go back—he could not stand like an idiot looking 
at the brook. In the days of his boyhood Warren had been 
an expert swimmer, but this was no test of skill that con¬ 
fronted him, it was one of endurance, and what endurance 
could he command—he? 

Warren muttered a curse that was a potential prayer. 

Presently he made an attempt to feel, with his feet, the 
depth of the water, but he almost lost his footing. He walked 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


207 


farther downstream; the uproar and blinding flashes were less¬ 
ening, but the rain was steadily falling. At each rod down, 
the brook seemed more dangerous. 

At last Warren owned himself defeated and with a groan 
crawled to the semi-shelter of a clump of bushes and sat de¬ 
jectedly down. 

Again he took no heed of time. He seemed to have come 
to the end of his resources. He must wait until the boy, with 
help, possibly, came and picked him up. 

But strained nerves and exhausted body conflicted. If he 
remained where he was he might fall asleep, become uncon¬ 
scious—be passed by! If he went upstream he might dis¬ 
cover what he had not discovered downstream; at any 
rate, he would be moving, be on the trail; and in case anything 
happened to him he would be found. 

So, dripping and staggering, Warren took again to the open. 

It was not long after that he smelled smoke. Stumbling, 
feeling his way, he pushed along; presently he sa^v a gleam— 
for Austen had piled the logs high in his distraction—and 
then, half falling, Warren came to the hut! 

“Is that you, Lake?” Austen from within called, and came 
to the door. “Lake, is that you?” 

Warren stumbled around the building, he had approached 
it from the side. 

“No, Austen, it is I—Warren.” 

Without a word more Warren staggered inside. The 
place was comparatively light, for the fire was at its fiercest. 

Constance raised herself upon her arm and stared, feeling 
that again fever was swaying her senses. 

“Vance!” she called shrilly. “Not Vance, surely?” 

“I’m here, Con, a bit bedraggled, soaked to the skin, but 
otherwise intact and—here!” 

Austen was pulling to the hearth a rickety chair. In a 
confused, amused way, he felt that he must act the host. 

“There,” he said, “take off your coat, Warren, it’s stream¬ 
ing.” 

“Vance!” 

“Yes, Con, in a minute-” 



208 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“ Vance, my ankle is broken or I would come to you.” 

This seemed to clear away much debris that none of them 
apparently were aware of; but there was much remaining! 

“I knew there must be something desperately bad,” War¬ 
ren returned. “We must get below, Austen. The car is at 
the stone wall by the trail.” 

“We cannot start now,” Austen said. “We must wait 
until we can at least see the trail.” 

And so they three waited in the lonely hut until the red 
dawn conquered darkness and storm and crept up the moun¬ 
tainside like a revealing Presence. It disclosed Lake’s huddled 
form to the men who had come from the distant village; it 
made easy the way to the boy and the man who, not finding 
Warren in the car, had waited only to mend the break in the 
machinery and then climbed on. 

Warren listened to the details of the accident, and trem¬ 
bled; he made light of his own adventure and laughed gaily 
when Constance urged him to take the ragged coverlid from 
the bed and wrap it about him. 

Austen spoke but little. He mended the fire and watched 
for the coming of day. As he watched and replenished the 
fire, Warren seemed to grow in stature—like a shadow on the 
wall—as he sat on the old chair. 

When the man and the boy reached the hut, they con¬ 
structed a rude litter and, with Constance on it, began the 
homeward journey. 

On the following day Austen, sitting beside Constance’s 
couch, bent his head before her while he listened. 

“Barney, dear, you must go away. I must be free to 
think; think and think; while I see you, you confuse me; 
and I must not be confused. Vance does not seem to be here; 
Vance, as I knew him, has vanished for ever. That man who 
came up the trail to find me is a stranger; he frightens me, 
compels me to see truth. Barney, I must find truth.” 

“What is truth?” Austen clutched his hands close. 

“I—I do not know, dear. I suppose when we find it—or 
when it finds us—we know. You and I, and such as you and 
I, have accepted the findings of others too readily. We must 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


209 


find our own. Eve been reading something in Olive Schreiner’s 
Dreams. You must read it some day. It is about a Hun¬ 
ter—a Hunter of Truth. All his life he struggled and 
at last, when he was dying, a feather—a white, soft feather— 
fell upon his breast.” 

“A feather!” Austen smiled and shook his head. 

“Barney, the feather was Truth and the Hunter knew it.” 

“Oh, my dear, my dearest!” Austen turned his face to the 
one on the pillow. “It is all beyond me; quite, quite beyond 
me. To renunciate stubbornly may not be best; to take, take 
may be worse. However, there is but one thing for me to do, 
and I am going to do it!” 

“Do what?” Constance asked. 

“Find the woman who ruined life for me once. She must 
not ruin Verity’s life. There has been too much of spoiling 
lives.” 

“You mean—oh! Barney, you mean you are going to—to 
find your wife?” 

The words came gaspingly. 

“Yes, if I can. She must not ruin Verity’s life. I see 
that now. Young things like Verity demand truth as much 
as the rest of us. God knows we should give them that at 
least, if it lies in our power. While I wanted freedom for my 
selfish desires, I could deny much. I can no longer take that 
course.” 

“And you, Barney, you? What of you?” 

“I, too, must think and think, Constance.” 

“You mean to give Verity her father?” 

“Yes. A poor exchange for dreams.” Austen shook his 
head. 

“No! No! Oh, Barney, you are giving her the blessedest 
thing on earth!” 

“You think that, Constance?” 

“Yes; and I know. Look at me.” 

Austen turned. 

“Can you not see, dear, that if we could slink from duty— 
snatch what we call happiness—we could not look in each 
other’s eyes as we do now? We are not afraid, Barney, you 


210 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


and I. We know the difference between reality and dreams, 
and we are not afraid.” 

“But we’re damnably lonely, my dear.” 

“No, Barney, not even that.” 

“And—Warren! Has he wakened yet, Constance?” 

Constance raised her hand as if to ward off from her 
sanctuary even so dear a presence as Austen’s. 

“I do not know; but I shall never waken him. If he 
wakens it will be because of something outside of my control.” 

“And if he dreams on-” 

“I shall watch while he dreams. Please, Barney, do not 
misunderstand, but where Vance and I are, not even you , 
dear, can come.” 

“I understand. At least I think I do, Constance.” 

“I shall remember that always until—until you come 
back, Barney, come—home! Remember that you under¬ 
stand. Some women, some men, could fling off any hold 
and perhaps for a time find happiness, but, Barney, I believe 
to all such a time will come when they cannot, knowing all, 
look as you and I do—into each other’s eyes. There are 
worse things than keeping to the blazed trails, dear. We 
must hold to that.” 


CHAPTER XX 


AUSTEN reached London in September and, with 
the insufficient data that Lewis had been able to 
gather for him, set about the task of finding Mary 

Carlin. 

The sense of the hunt is keen in most men, and Austen 
found a grim interest in the work he had put his hand to. It, 
at least, filled his waking hours and brought him to the day’s 
close so weary that sleep followed in spite of anxiety and back¬ 
ward glances. 

Early in the week after his arrival Austen established 
two or three important facts, and then they merged into a 
blurred, confused conjecture, for Mary Carlin had resorted to 
old methods of procedure and adopted noms-de-plume as 
casually, apparently, as she did new modes of life. 

As Mary Carlin she went from the steamer to a certain 
lodging house in a respectable part of London. 

She had remained there but a few days. Restlessness, 
or perhaps a fear that she was living too luxuriously, drove her 
forth to a less attractive place. After that she evaded pur¬ 
suit by her disguises. 

Austen, at this stage, engaged professional aid. Selecting 
a man whom he could trust and respect, he gave what infor¬ 
mation was necessary, and then waited. 

That was the most difficult thing to do. With empty time 
on his hands he discovered that he was feeling not only wor¬ 
ried, but physically ill. He had never got over the shock and 
subsequent events of that day and night at Rocky Lonesome. 
He was nervously and physically at low ebb and, as if Fate 
were but waiting to deal him a harder blow and eliminate him 
from the scheme of things, he contracted typhoid—the dan¬ 
gerous, walking type, and for a full week felt, as he later 

211 


212 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


described it, as if he were being wafted through time and 
space without volition. 

He got up, went to bed; he supposed that in between he 
ate and acted, but he was never clear as to that. He felt 
elated; wondered why he did not worry about things; had 
difficulty in recalling just what it was that he should worry 
about. He concluded that it must be Verity. He thought 
a great deal about Verity. 

Letters came to him and he read them over and over; each 
time he found something that he had overlooked before. 
Verity was having a marvellous time in the mountains. 
Austen laughed at Verity’s letters; he wrote to her when he 
could. He told her once that youngsters like her who had 
thrown everything overboard had better look and see what 
ballast they could get to replace it—she had better not sail 
without ballast. 

It’s all right to tear down, but what are you and your mad crew 
building? What are you giving while you are throwing away? 

Austen wondered what Verity had said to cause him to 
write like that; but he could not remember and he could not 
find her letter. 

Lewis’s letters were balm. They were full of business. 
Apparently Lewis was taking life seriously. Too seriously. 
It did not pay to be too serious. He wrote: 

Everything is adjusted. It’s easier than carrying your load 
unevenly. 

Austen did not understand that, but it gave him comfort 
to know that someone whom he liked as he did Lewis was 
finding things easier. 

Constance’s letters, few but full of tenderness, disturbed 
Austen more than anything else. She handled so openly the 
sacred tie that held but did not bind them that he resented it. 

No woman has a right to risk too much with any man unless she 
is willing to bear part of what may happen. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


213 


He was thinking of what Warren might demand from 
Constance’s tenderness. 

When Austen muttered that to himself, he got up from his 
chair—he was sitting in his room at the hotel—went to the 
desk, took all his letters, papers, and valuables, jammed them 
into a satchel, and then telephoned to the office for a physi¬ 
cian. The thought of what Warren might exact maddened 
him. His head was aching terribly—it blinded him; made 
his ears ring. The doctor who came to him was, happily, 
not merely a good physician, but he was a kindly, wise man 
as well. 

Austen talked a great deal to him for some time, by a 
mighty effort made himself understood, and gained his 
sympathy and cooperation. 

“Of course, if things look fatal, cable here.” Austen 
handed Lewis’s card to the doctor. “If you’ll be good 
enough to write and say I’m off—oh! anywhere will do—on 
business for a month or so, and cannot be depended upon for 
mail, I’d be greatly obliged. I do not want any one to come 
here just now. Then there is this business for which I came 
over. Please get in touch with this man.” Austen passed 
over the card of the London detective. “And now, having 
made myself as complete a nuisance as possible, what do you 
advise?” 

“A hospital, my dear fellow, and you may depend upon 

^ ^ yy 

me. 

So to the hospital Austen was sent and, promptly, passed 
through all the stages of the disease. He rather dizzily 
skirted the edges of black chasms; twice the doctor had a 
cable ready, twice tore it up and put his shoulder to his task 
with renewed hope. 

In the meantime, several things occurred that greatly 
concerned Austen, but which he heeded not at all—being 
absorbed by his ventures near the edge of things. 

From one dreary lodging house to another Mary Carlin 
merged into Flora Dean; then into Susan Reeve; and, lastly 
Clara Owens. As Clara Owens she was taken, after a dan- 


214 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


gerous heart attack, to a charity hospital, and there, because 
an epidemic prevailed and much confusion existed, she was 
supposed to have died and been buried, at the city’s expense, 
as Claire Owing. 

As a matter of fact, Claire Owing was not Clara Owens, as 
later developments proved; but Clara Owens, if not dead, was, 
to all intents and purposes, obliterated. The detective re¬ 
signed from the case. 

The physician in charge of Austen was young enough and 
idealistic enough to be deeply interested in his patient. He 
took upon himself many duties besides the main one of keep¬ 
ing Austen alive. 

He wrote to Lewis and, once, to Constance Warren. He 
posed as Austen’s confidential man—Lewis believed the 
writer to be a lawyer. He drew upon his all but sacrificed 
imagination and, with what Austen had confided and the 
detective had confessed, he constructed a really dependable 
bridge that bound the past and present, the true and the false, 
together, and so gave Austen time and opportunity to find 
his way back to life at his leisure—and he was very leisurely 
about it—without unnecessary complications. 

Late autumn found Austen a mere shadow of himself, but 
still himself! By degrees he picked up the dropped strands; 
read a few letters each day, letters that had been piled up 
during his illness. 

“I hope you’ll excuse my opening them,” the doctor 
explained. “It seemed necessary—but you understand that 
everything is as if I knew nothing.” 

“Of course, and I’m no end grateful, Mandville.” 

The two men were friends now, not merely patient and 
doctor. 

“Do you believe this Clara Owens is the woman I was 
seeking?” Austen asked one day. 

Mandville, feeling his way, replied: “I cannot be sure, the 
chances are that she is. But does it really matter, Austen?” 

“It does.” 

“Well, then, while you put the dogs on the scent again, you 
had better come over on the Continent with me. You can- 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


215 


not do much by hanging around in this smutty fog, and you 
cannot go home looking as you look now. Come across and 
get a layer of flesh on your carcass and a grip on yourself.” 

So Austen put his affairs once more in capable hands and 
followed Mandville’s advice. 

When he could trust himself, he wrote home—wrote as if 
nothing but business and necessary absence in out-of-the-way 
places had caused his apparent neglect. 

To Lewis this explanation meant that Mary Carlin was 
giving trouble and eluding search; to Constance it meant that 
Austen was having a hard and lonely time and bearing it, as 
was his fashion, silently and, for the most part, alone; it was 
Verity who puckered her brows and grew thoughtful, so 
thoughtful that the gay, heedless young people in the Adiron¬ 
dack camp looked at her curiously and began to jibe. That 
was their antidote for anything that puzzled them—laugh 
it to scorn! 

Verity laughed, too; laughed as boys whistle: to keep her 
courage up. She was tasting the cup of life, as her associates 
were, but with this difference: where they gulped and sput¬ 
tered, she sipped as one does who is enjoying the flavour or, if 
disliking it, need not get too much. When her companions 
preached the gospel of “grab all you can and at once, and 
discard later,” she selected, preserving always the right of 
selection. Her gaiety, beauty, and nonchalant daring made 
her a delight. She was never afraid to do, or go, but she 
often turned back with the indifference born of high courage. 

“Em not going to do things I hate just to shock others,” she 
often declared. Then she added: “I like to respect myself.” 

“ Cut it out,” her young hostess replied. “Yourself! What 
is yourself? You’re making yourself as you go along, Verity. 
What you respect now won’t be in sight when you are fifty.” 

“Perhaps so,” Verity returned, “but at least I can have 
some sort of plan. Even if I am patchwork, I want to be 
rather firmly welded together.” 

“A little more talk like that,” Jane Terrell flung back, 
“and we’ll have to save you from yourself.” 

“Try it out, try it out!” and Verity tossed her head. 


2l6 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


It was during this time that Austen’s actions, or lack of 
action, drew Verity’s brows together. 

Perhaps no quality of her mind was so highly and sensi¬ 
tively developed as loyalty, and Austen appealed to her as no 
one else on earth ever had—not even her mother who, more 
and more, was becoming dreamlike and vague. 

The years of Bluff End, also, began to press in upon Verity’s 
memory during her gay, heedless summer. She thought of 
old Ezra as she had not thought of him in years. He had been 
sacrificed for Austen, but the thought hurt now. Austen 
had transplanted her, shaking the earth from her roots; old 
Ezra must have agreed to the wisdom of this, but often 
as the riotous mob in camp danced and sang and drank 
until they were dizzy, she pictured Ezra sitting by his cabin 
door mending nets. God’s work! 

“When Barney comes home there will be a time of reckon¬ 
ing. He may have my father for me and I will be fixed. 
Then I can afford to go back and pick up dear old Granddad 
Ezra!” 

That craving to belong to someone in a definite, special 
way often overcame Verity with sick desire. In every phase 
of her sad little detached life she had always reached forth 
desperately to secure something, someone for her own, but 
she had always failed. Old Ezra; the grave of the Unknown 
Woman; Barney! They all seemed unreal. 

“And you have to sacrifice and pay for the luxury,” she 
thought, “and then not get it. I don’t like Barney’s long 
silences,” she thought on. “If he and I really belonged to 
each other, they could not happen. He would confide in me 
or I would go to him.” 

Letters from Coverly were almost as perplexing, and they 
brought sharply to Verity that confidential conversation so 
like reading another’s letters. Constance, after her accident, 
was confined to the house; her ankle in a plaster cast held her 
like a trap. 

But she wrote as if she and Verity had never looked into 
each other’s souls, and this irritated the girl. 

“People have no right to dump their confidences upon you 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


217 

and then shove you off as if you were a nosey little thing that 
had to be put in her place.” 

But she was, at the same time, grateful for the detachment. 
The recital of the night in the cabin, as Constance told it, 
had thrilled Verity. Vance Warren’s part was heroic. It 
gave food for thought. Constance wrote: 

Vance will not let me praise him. He wants to know if I ex¬ 
pected him to hang about like a cat. One never knows what he 
expects of another—really. 

With that Constance changed her thought. 

“I wonder what role Barney acted that night?” mused the 
girl, rereading the letter. “I bet Barney wasn’t skulking. 
What a mess!” 

Somehow the letters of Constance made Verity feel lonelier 
than she had in years. “More like a poor relation,” she said, 
and smiled wanly. “Take, or leave alone.” 

In her determination to hide her true state of mind— 
strangle it if she could—Verity went to great lengths. 

And while the game went on, Mary Carlin drifted from one 
dreary lodging house to another, then to the hospital where 
she, to all intents and purposes, became dead and done for. 
Loneliness at last amounted to despair. She even contem¬ 
plated suicide. “I cannot seem to die regularly,” she sobbed 
in her lonely, grim rooms. “Why not?” 

There was no reason. But she clung on. 

The power to make friends had long since departed from her 
with her poor little lures of beauty and sex. The lack drove 
her in her shame and weakness to a craven humility—she 
tried so hard to win a little pitiful attention and liking that 
she repelled people. 

When she left the hospital she frequented cheap theatres 
and tea houses. She was glad to be with people on any terms. 
When strength failed her she read fiction. The sex novels did 
not move her, but she read them in greater numbers, wonder¬ 
ing; wondering why she, she of all women, could not under- 


2 i8 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


stand; why they sickened her. Then she began to count her 
money; her bank book was always with her and she drew 
smaller and smaller sums, fearing, fearing. 

On Sundays she went to church. She was near people 
there, and Sunday was such a terrible day to be alone. She 
heard words which in the past she would have laughed to 
scorn; she heard hymns and caught the thought; the music 
carried the words deeper, for Mary Carlin had an ear for 
music and once she had sung. 

Always, always during the desolate, dreary time she 
recalled Verity as she had seen her rushing to Austen in 
the railroad station. The memory became an obsession. 
The beauty, the aloofness of the girl had all but driven away 
the memory of the little waiting child who used to nestle 
in her arms. Her baby seemed dead. Night after night Mary 
Carlin tried to resurrect the baby-thing that was, or had been, 
her own; but instead that tall, fair, eager girl stood guard, 
pushing, pushing her away into outer darkness and never 
looking. Just pushing, and then going on. 

At last Mary Carlin, passing through her various assumed 
names and so eluding Austen, became a victim of such fear as 
she had never known. She was afraid of life and death; 
afraid of the day; terrified by the night. 

She used to leave the door of her wretched bedroom open 
and listen for a step, a word—even a deep snore that gave 
her a sense of human nearness. 

At last she began to barter and trick her conscience. 

“What difference can it make to them where I am? If I 
hide, keep out of their path, why should they banish me? I 
could live cheaper back home—I know how.” 

The yearning for America became sickeningly intense, and 
she, who had no home, no welcome, prayed for strength to 
go back—to nothing. 

Then Mary Carlin—she had now become Jean Fancher— 
wrote to Anna Thomley in Philadelphia and poured out her 
soul on six sheets of paper. 

She confided almost everything; repeated; reiterated. She 
harked back to years when she and Anna Thomley had danced 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


219 


and pranced together on brittle surfaces; had held each other 
up and, when necessity demanded, had brought each other to 
semi-safety after accidents. In those days it had been in 
Mary Carlin’s power to help often and, to her credit, she had 
not been niggardly. She drew this to Anna Thomley’s 
attention. 

Mrs. Thomley read, reread, and digested the epistle and 
gathered her own conclusions. 

“I paid back everything I owed her when I fed and clothed 
her child for years with little or nothing coming in. We’re 
quits, all right.” Anna Thomley sniffed. That being dis¬ 
carded, what next? 

Anna Thomley was keeping a lodging house, and body and 
soul together, at the same time. While outwardly respect¬ 
able, she was constantly alert as to side issues. She had the 
strain of an adventurer running in her blood but was too 
cowardly to take chances. Her mind was a ferret mind; 
she never gave up anything until she ran her quarry to earth, 
but she travelled as the mole does, under cover. 

She knew all about Austen, Verity, and Lewis; she had 
even scented the Warrens’ trail, and she had enough imagina¬ 
tion and cheap dramatic instinct to gloat over the situation. 

“God! how they would hate to have the spotlight turned 
on them!” she thought. Her own lantern was a dark one, but 
in Mary Carlin she saw another possibility at last. 

So she wrote a kind and genial letter to her old friend 
and invited her to visit her. Then she went on: 

There’s that old house on the Massachusetts coast—the Barnacle, 
I call it. It is furnished, boarded up, and in fair repair; it’s at your 
service. You could eke out a living there, once you got on your 
feet, and be as safe from spying eyes as if you were in Africa. I shall 
never return there. I cannot rent it or sell it. As Mrs. Fancher 
no one would suspect you. 

Anna Thomley, believing Austen had acted for the Del- 
mars, wrote on: 

They all pulled the hole in after them when once they took steps. 
You’ve kept pretty mum about your part in the big sale, but I sup- 


220 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


pose you have some money, though you never were good at driving 
a bargain. You should have consulted me before letting that young 
Lewis fellow buy you off. 

As! for Delmar, he deserved all he got, but Lord! a woman who 
went to the lengths you did can’t name a price. 

When the Thomley letter reached “Mrs. Fancher,” she was 
torn by emotions. Would she be less lonely in the deserted 
house than she was at present? Must she always grovel and 
hide and know the horror of loneliness? Must she at last 
be found dead? 

That was the crowning fear that haunted her. 

And then the thought of the place where Verity had lived 
and waited lured her magically. Perhaps she could recall 
her baby-child there—if she never, never tried to reach out 
to that wonderful, swift-moving girl who was not hers! 

At this juncture Mary Carlin vowed, to whatever stood in 
her as conscience, that she would keep to her promise to 
Lewis. She had never been more keen, but she had a right, 
so she temporized, to choose her hole to die in. 

And so Jean Fancher went back to what she miserably 
termed home. 

At first Anna Thomley seemed like a rock in a weary land. 
She was friendly and comforting and, in order to shield much, 
Jean Fancher declared that Verity was Delmar’s child and 
that Austen was acting in the Delmar interests. Always the 
lie and the truth were resorted to as need arose. And this 
seemed the easiest way. 

“They must pay him a princely sum for what he’s doing,” 
Anna Thomley explained. “He acts like the girl was 
his.” 

“I guess they do pay well,” Jean Fancher admitted, 
hungering for news. 

“They might be induced to pay more,” Mrs. Thomley sug¬ 
gested, but at this Jean Fancher quailed. 

“I am not ever going to take that course.” She bridled as 
she spoke. “That’s ended.” 

“I suppose you’d rather starve?” Anna Thomley sneered. 

“Yes, I would. I was mad when I shot Delmar.” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


221 


From that time on the friendliness dwindled to indifference 
then to positive rudeness. 

“If you’re so proud and mighty, you’d better pack off to 
Bluff End and see what you can fish as a living,” Anna 
Thomley said. 

“Very well, Anna, I can at least try—and if the fishing is 
not good, there’ll at least be plenty of water.” 

“I haven’t any feelings to be touched, my dear.” Anna 
Thomley tossed her head. “When a woman’s sensations 
get dulled she cannot be sentimental. If you ever want 
advice-” 

“I don’t! I only want peace.” 

And so Jean Fancher, with her bags and shabby trunk, 
made her lonely way to Bluff End, and upon leaving the boat 
came upon Ezra mending nets by his cabin door. 

There were many nets awaiting his attention, for it was 
early spring and the winter had been a hard one. Ezra, a bit 
dimmer of vision, but strong and hale, gazed up suddenly 
and saw a stranger at his gate. 

“Can you tell me”—how desperately weary and thin the 
voice was—“how I can get my trunk and bags to a cottage 
called the Barnacle?” 

“Why”—and here Ezra stumbled forward—“the place is 
plumb empty and shet.” 

“Yes. I’ve hired it. I am going to open it. I’m going 
to stay there.” 

Ezra got active at once. This was but another net to 
mend. 

By night the yellow house was partially opened, a fire 
lighted on the long-empty hearth, and some bedding aired; 
food obtained. 

“And now,” Ezra explained when at sunset he turned his 
face toward home, “just set forth a call if you need a haul. 
We ain’t overflip with tongues on the Bluff, but our hearts 
are willing.” 

Jean Fancher thanked him with trembling voice. “I 
did not know such as you lived,” she said. 

“I’m common enough breed, ma’am,” Ezra replied, as he 



222 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


laughed his cracked laugh. “The Lord Almighty made a 
lot of us and scattered us plentiful.” 

“Not along my way.” Jean Fancher put forth a thin, hot 
hand. 

“Maybe, ma’am, you wasn’t looking for ’em,” Ezra re¬ 
turned, and went chuckling away. 


CHAPTER XXI 


T HE new tenant of the Barnacle was certainly a pecu¬ 
liar person. She excited some interest and a good 
deal of sympathy, but eventually was taken for 
granted, as was Bluff End’s custom with Off-Enders, whether 
they drifted in from the sea or travelled afoot. It was the 
code of hospitality to accept them. They were left alone 
to live their lives, or sleep their endless sleep. 

When the days were warm, Mrs. Fancher walked abroad, 
smiled, if any one looked at her, made no demands, and ap¬ 
parently expected nothing. 

Milk, eggs, and other necessities were left at her back door, 
if she did not respond to the knock, and she always paid 
promptly. 

When night fell the wooden shutters of the Barnacle were 
closed, but these shutters had in the upper half quarter- 
moon slits which looked like raised eyebrows; through these 
slits the living-room light shone forth, far on toward morning, 
testifying to the presence of the mistress. 

Old Ezra, on his long, wind-swept walks, grew nervous 
about the closed shutters and the lights. 

“Looks queer!” he muttered, and drew his old pea jacket 
closer about him. Ezra rarely walked by day, but night had 
always charmed him. 

“Seems like I oftener come upon Him walking by the sea 
when night falls,” he explained if any one questioned his lonely 
rambles. “God seems terrible near under the stars, and there 
be times, when the storms rave, that I can almost hear Him 
say, ‘Peace, be still/ More than once Eve watched the sea 
flatten out and the wind drop, for no reason whatsoever 
but His command.” 

And if Ezra did at times find Him by the sea, it was to 


223 


224 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


good purpose, for holy thoughts came to the old man; it was 
like communing with the God he knew, not merely knew 
about. And since that God has only the hearts, heads, and 
hands of men to use for earthly interpretation of His wishes, 
Ezra was chosen for special work. 

It came gradually to the lonely man that the woman in the 
yellow house had not happened, but had been sent. He did 
not ask any questions, once this idea presented itself to him: 
he accepted it. In due time he would know why; be told 
what to do. Then, as if it had no connection with the stran¬ 
ger, Ezra thought of his money. This astonished the old 
man, but he could not disentangle the two thoughts. Money! 
The Stranger! 

“It is growing mightily/’ he muttered, and shook his head, 
thinking of his money; “but what is one to do if he cannot 
spend it?” 

With food and shelter provided by a generous God, with 
neighbours supplied with all they required, with the church 
long since closed, what was an honest man to do with money? 

“Why, it fattens on itself,” poor Ezra thought. And then 
the stranger loomed over the worrying hoard. 

The captain of the Boston boat attended to Ezra’s financial 
affairs, and every time he landed he discussed matters with 
his old friend. 

“You might give yourself some luxury,” he once suggested. 
“You ain’t got any one to leave your money to.” 

Ezra scratched his head. 

“Luxury?” he thought. “What is luxury?” 

He mulled that over for a week, then ordered an extra suit 
of clothes, two pairs of boots, several pounds of tobacco, and 
six jars of broken candy. 

“Them is all the luxuries I can think of,” he chuckled; 
“a little more of everything I have; a feeling that I’ve got 
more than I need—and the candy, being hard and lasting, will 
keep my jaws busy. This, I reckon, be luxury.” 

But still the money fed upon itself and swelled the bank 
account. 

“I just can’t throw myself at Mrs. Fancher’s head,” Ezra 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


225 


ruminated one night on his stroll, “and while she’s pleasant- 
looking for all the damage done her face, she ain’t what one 
would call welcoming.” 

But the Lord was looking after the details of Ezra’s piece 
of work, and one day—it was a hot August day—he came 
upon Mrs. Fancher by the grave of the Unknown Woman. 

That grave had become during the years an altar to Ezra. 
Long since he had had a stone erected—that had relieved him 
of a little of his money—and on it was carved the original 
words and, as near as he could recall, Verity’s also. The 
stone-cutter had marvelled at the jumble, but Ezra declared 
that since it was his money that was to pay for the stone, 
he meant to have it as he wanted it: 

Here lies an Unknown Woman 

Washed ashore December-■ 

My Mother. 

Dates, being non-essential, were omitted. 

Ezra always approached the grave reverently and with 
bared head; he planted flowers near it; kept the stiff grass 
close-cut, and had placed a rough seat near by, where often 
he sat and smoked and thought of little gal Verity. 

And there, that hot August day, he came upon Jean Fan¬ 
cher. She looked up at Ezra, smilingly. 

“Do you mind?” she asked. “This seems such a pretty 
place—someone loves it; takes care of it.” 

Ezra with rare dignity lifted his old cap and stood leaning 
on his cane like a benign and friendly pilgrim, glad to share 
his shrine with another. 

“It is all that, ma’am,” he said. “And you be more than 
welcome to the spot.” 

“The—the words, I cannot understand them. Perhaps 
you will explain.” 

Jean Fancher looked friendly and, as her scarred cheek 
was turned away, she seemed almost pretty and certainly 
much younger than Ezra had supposed her to be. 

“I’ll be glad and free to explain,” Ezra said and came 


226 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


nearer. “It began with a poor, lonely little soul, as I called 
tittle gal Verity. She was that starved and longing that she 
took the dead and made it hers.” 

Jean Fancher thought that she was dying. Her heart, 
which menaced, but which would not cease its beating, for a 
moment seemed to have given up the struggle. 

Had Ezra been less preoccupied he would have heeded the 
white, deathly face; he would have stopped his rambling story 
in dismay, but his far-off blue eyes were turned away from the 
stranger and she had time to sink into blackness, emerge, and 
draw a deep sigh, while the old cracked voice, sometimes 
chuckling, often tear-choked, ran on and on. 

“There be times even now, ma’am, when something in my 
heart tugs for her, but I mind how I gave her up, first and last, 
when she needed me no more, as a proof that I cared for her 
that deep and true that I wouldn’t hold her back for the sel¬ 
fishness in me that besets me still at odd moments. It’s 
comforting to know how I could do that for her. You see, 
ma’am, there be some fitted by Almighty God for the open 
sea, and others for the nearer waters. She was made for 
the big places outside the bar. If she drifted back close to 
shore for any reason, who knows? It’s the nearer waters as 
does most damage to deep-sea craft. What with tossing them 
hither and yon and dashing them agin the bar, it’s more than 
likely to strain their timber, if it don’t eternally wreck ’em. 
I’ve seen many a bark shattered in my time, due to the wrong 
idea of duty, or selfish holding, or what you please to call it. 
I ain’t ever held anything back, please God, but I have tin¬ 
kered on weak spots and lent a hand at pushing off, when the 
time came.” 

Jean Fancher was hardly listening, but something of all 
that was being said surged over her, retreated, but always left 
a bit that, later, she would be able to hold and cherish. 

During her few days with Anna Thomley in Philadelphia 
she had tried to get the woman to talk, to tell her of the days 
that Verity had been in her care. But Anna Thomley either 
had a bad memory or thought the demand sentimental and 
futile. She had been more interested in Verity’s paternity, 


SMOTHERED FIRES 227 

the possibility of making fresh demands upon Austen, via 
Lewis. 

Jean Fancher sat rigidly now, drinking in old Ezra’s words; 
struggling against the faintness that numbed her and left 
her panting, but through which dropped, like blessed rain on 
a perishing flower, the things she wanted to know. 

‘"Does she never come to see you?” 

At last words were possible and they were weighted with 
fear; hope; desperation. 

“No, ma’am, she don’t ever drift in, and like as not she’s 
forgot; and I ain’t holding that against her, either. A cargo 
of dead matter ain’t no fit cargo for a far-reaching journey. 
Some one or nuther done great harm to little gal Verity 
before she came here—I feel sure and certain of that, ma’am. 
She was deserted and set adrift, I take it, and when one came 
and rescued her, tugged her to a safer port, it ain’t likely I’d 
send a call after her.” 

“Don’t, don’t!” Jean Fancher raised her thin hand; she 
seemed warding off a physical attack. 

“Ma’am!” Ezra now looked at his companion; was shocked 
at the blue-white face, the purple lips. 

“You are ill, ma’am!” 

“Only—weak. I am getting better all the time. I must 
go now—go back to the cottage.” 

“May I help you, ma’am?” Ezra stretched forth a bony, 
strong right hand. 

“Yes.” And holding to Ezra, Jean Fancher made her way 
slowly to the yellow house. 

“I’m wondering, ma’am,” Ezra asked, as he was about to 
leave the cottage, “if ytiu’re just naturally shy or wrongly 
unfriendly?” 

“Oh, not unfriendly—not that! I’m desperately lonely, 
but-” 

“Perhaps, ma’am, you’ll let me come, now and then, and 
set with you between the daylight and dark. It’s then that 
I set out for my walks. And—” Ezra paused—“I don’t 
like the idea of your being shut away when night falls. I’m 
studying this way about it. Mightn’t it be safer for you 


228 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


to leave the door ajar while the weather’s fine and, should 
you need help at night, set a light in the north window of the 
cottage? I could see it from my house and fetch help. There 
be kind and friendly souls on the Bluff, ma’am, but they’re 
not given to showing off their wares. You are safe, ma’am, 
with us. We are a God-loving, not a God-fearing, folk.” 

Jean Fancher bowed her head. 

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I’ll do what you suggest. 
Thank you.” 

And so it was that old Ezra became the one vital thing in 
Jean Fancher’s dull life. 

She lived through the long hours for that time, between 
the dark and the light, when Ezra came. Storm or purple 
gloaming against a golden west, Ezra Taber made his way to 
the yellow house. Often he would urge Jean Fancher to 
stroll on the hard sandy beach when the tide was low; over 
and over he related the doings of little gal Verity to her, who 
listened breathlessly, silently, thus flattering him, poor, 
faithful old soul. 

Sometimes, when the night boded no good to sea or shore, 
Ezra remained longer with the sick woman and comforted her 
by singing, in his sweet, cracked voice, hymns whose words 
were to the old man little less than God’s own messages. 

“Jesus Lover of My Soul” was Ezra’s favourite, and pres¬ 
ently the words and tune found their way into Jean Fancher’s 
consciousness. She listened to Ezra’s interpretation, smiled, 
grew tear-dimmed often, and whispered: “That’s beauti¬ 
ful.” 

One night the furies descended upon Bluff End; the surf 
beat and roared; the bar moaned and the wind drove the sand 
in clouds and laid the stiff grass flat. 

There was a fire on the hearth of the Barnacle; Jean 
Fancher crouched before it and shivered; Ezra paced the room 
as if it were the deck of a battered ship. He was singing, and 
at intervals he stopped, spoke explainingly, and bade the 
shuddering woman to remember that God was there. 

“Them is only the nearer waters, ma’am,” he said. “I 
reckon that out beyond the bar it is peaceful and safe.” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


229 

“But we are here!” Jean Fancher moaned; “here—and 
the danger is here.” 

“Guide me, oh! my Saviour, guide, 

Till the storm of life be past,” 

chanted Ezra as he walked to and fro seemingly forgetting 
the crouching form by the fire. 

“Other refuge have I none. 

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee.” 

And then, by the magic of a power over which Jean 
Fancher had no control, she called: 

“Come here. Sit close—I want to tell you—something!” 
Her secret burst from her; she lost control and she told much 
—not all. Told of her own wrongdoing, her suffering, her 
desperate state. She mentioned no names; swept wide of 
Verity. What Ezra gathered was that a sad and wrecked 
Magdalen had drifted to Bluff End and that God demanded 
of him justice and mercy in her behalf. 

“I—I swore to trouble them no more,” the woman moaned, 
“ but what am I to do ? God will not let me die. I am afraid 
to live. Oh! what shall I do?” 

Ezra came close, placed his hands upon the back of a chair, 
and lifted his face as if listening; waiting for orders. 

He was seeing the scene of long ago; the woman at the feet 
of her Saviour. 

“Sin no more!” The words were like an echo of what 
rang in Ezra’s ears. The howling wind drowned the gentle, 
wavering voice. 

“You must bide patient till the truth comes to you,” 
Ezra droned on. “He is mindful. It remains to be seen 
what He has in store for you. At evening, there shall be 
light!” The words ended triumphantly and then: “See, 
ma’am, He has sent a sign and a symbol. Behold!” 

The wind, with a last wail, fell pantingly; the surf les¬ 
sened its thundering and, off in the west, the clouds broke, 


230 SMOTHERED FIRES 

revealing what seemed to be a glimpse into a city of gold and 
purple. 

Jean Fancher, crouching, shuddering, glanced up. Then 
reached forth a trembling hand. 

“It is beautiful,” she murmured, “beautiful.” And she 
smiled. 

“Are you—poor?” Ezra spoke calmly and the woman, 
held by the beauty of the western sky, replied faintly: 

“Yes.” 

“They bought you ofF, I take it?” 

“Yes, they thought they bought me off. But I was not 
bought—I gave!” 

“Then, ma’am, there must be no turning back.” 

“I do not understand.” Jean Fancher’s eyes fell away 
from the radiant pathway; she seemed to fall back to the 
' coming night with its chill and loneliness. “I do not under¬ 
stand.” 

“A vow be a vow,” Ezra explained. “But it is as I sus¬ 
pected, ma’am. You was sent to me that I might care for 
you till such a time as the Almighty needs me no more.” 

“What do you mean?” Jean Fancher lifted her blanched, 
scarred face. Because life had been to her what it had been, 
she shrank back in horror. 

“Oh, I cannot!” she groaned, and then she gave a mad 
laugh—a laugh that had its roots in the ugly soil where men 
bartered for women and women sold themselves. 

But Ezra’s eyes were calm and his ears caught not the 
sound of scorn and despair. He was puzzled, his fine old 
face softened in pity. 

“What do you mean?” Again the woman put her ques¬ 
tion, but she ceased her mocking laughter; her eyes clung 
to Ezra’s. 

“That what I have is the Lord’s.” Ezra spoke slowly, as 
one might to a child who is learning a foreign tongue; and 
indeed he was nearer the truth than he realized. “That’s 
what I mean, just that. I clothed and often fed little gal 
Verity, and while I done that the Lord had His way with her. 
I’ve stood by many a wrecked seaman, in the Almighty’s 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


231 


name, offering the money like it was a life line, to help ’em 
to the harbours where they would be. So, ma’am, I offer 
you what you need, biding the time when the Lord takes 
things in His own hands.” 

Ezra spoke austerely. He looked steadily upon the up¬ 
lifted face, on which surface expressions drifted, at first like 
light clouds, then dark clouds; then complete blankness. 

“I did not know that such a thing could be!” Jean Fan- 
cher breathed the words on departing doubt. 

“The ways of the Lord passeth understanding,” Ezra sug¬ 
gested. 

Outside the storm was hushed; the rift in the darkness had 
closed, but the stars were breaking through, and a wan moon 
gave a ghostly gleam where the drifting clouds were thin. 

“And now, ma’am, since all danger is past and gone, I must 
leave you. There will be food and drink day by day; there 
will be wood and what not for your needs. Accept them as 
sent by God.” 

Ezra straightened his bent shoulders as if shifting a new 
and sacred burden upon them. Then he smiled his beautiful 
smile upon the woman still seated on the hearth, hands 
clasped, scarred face raised in awe. 

“Heaven bless you, Ezra Taber,” Jean Fancher whispered 
as if in prayer. “I—I cannot understand, but I am no 
longer afraid. I feel safe.” 

“And so you are, ma’am, safe.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


I EWIS’S affairs were ruffled enough in some respects, but 
he found solace in a most unexpected quarter. 

-• Aunt Jane came to the surface in an amazing and 
breathtaking way. 

After all her years of submission, first to her brother’s 
mandates and then to her sister-in-law’s, the quaint old lady 
suddenly realized that she had a safe little income of her own 
and, unless she had been hopelessly crushed, she might rise 
to heights of independence and self-expression never at¬ 
tempted before. 

She was very much frightened and wildly excited, but a 
new light came to her patient eyes and strength to her gentle 
lips. 

When she had bidden Lewis good-night after his reading of 
the riot act, something rose within her. All the unrecog¬ 
nized desires of her nature sprang to life. “Sprang” was a 
rather strong word; rather they limped, pathetically, to the 
fore and refused to be downed. 

The hardness and injustice that she had borne herself she 
had tried to believe her Master’s will, but she revolted in 
Lewis’s behalf. 

“God may have demanded that I should bear my cross,” 
the dear soul pondered, “but I never can believe He demands 
that I stand by and see this outrage.” 

So she flew her first signal. 

“Sister-in-law, I am going to see Theodore.” 

Mrs. Lewis turned, as if on a pivot. Her code included 
the loyalty of others to her far-reaching dictates. 

“See him—where?” 

“I’m going to his rooms.” 

“Jane! This is, from every point of view, indecent.” 

232 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


233 

“All the same, I am going.” Jane looked like a mutinous 
kitten. 

“Perhaps”—sarcastically—“you contemplate taking rooms 
yourself in which to entertain friends unfit for your 
home. Jane, are you mad? Cannot you see that if Theo¬ 
dore is to be brought to his senses you and I must stand as 
one?” 

Jane took up, in order, the items of this tirade. 

“If it becomes necessary for me to seek other quarters,” 
she said demurely, “it can be done. Our lawyer tells me that 
my income is eight thousand a year. I could cut down 
foreign missions and have rooms, if the worst comes to the 
worst. As for friends, I’d like to make a few new ones. The 
ranks are thinning. I’m not mad, sister-in-law, and I do 
not think you have any right to try and control Theodore. 
As to us standing as one, that is plain foolishness, and I do 
not intend longer to act as if I were a periwinkle!” 

The climax was absurd but dramatic. Periwinkle took on 
the aspect of dire evil. 

“Jane! Periwinkle! What is the world coming to?” 
Mrs. Lewis sank into the nearest chair. She had all the ap¬ 
pearance of having been crushed under an avalanche, or 
flattened out by a steam roller. “If you take this step you 
do it at your peril,” she gasped. 

“I am prepared for that.” Jane Lewis remained stand¬ 
ing. Whatever had descended, she was safe for the time 
being. 

And that very day she went to Lewis’s apartment. In 
her ignorance she planned a dramatic scene, and her ignor¬ 
ance obtained for her what experience might have failed to 
procure. 

She, all aflutter and dressed in her daintiest, presented 
herself at the house office and smilingly asked if she might 
see Mr. Lewis. 

“He’s not in, ma’am.” The man at the desk looked in¬ 
terested and Aunt Jane grew communicative and intimate— 
she saw she must, as she mentally put it, be diplomatic. 

“Of course! How stupid of me, but you see I am his aunt 


234 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


—I wanted to surprise him. I’ve come from a—a distance” 
—and so she had, dear soul; she was quite breathless from 
her travel. “I thought—well, perhaps you can let me in!” 
This came triumphantly. 

The man turned to the key rack. He was overpowered. 
It was an hour later when he realized, fully, what a chance he 
had taken. 

“Here’s Mr. Lewis’s key, ma’am. He always leaves one 
in case the dog needs attention.” 

“Dog!” Aunt Jane exclaimed. 

“Dog, ma’am. A kindly, patient animal named Scruff. 
The creature wouldn’t hurt anything.” 

“Oh, I’m not afraid! I’m only glad. You see-” 

Aunt Jane almost confided to the man a scene long past 
when Theodore Lewis had smuggled a homeless cur into the 
home of iis father and had wept nearly all night when the 
poor beast had been ejected. 

The elevator made Aunt Jane a bit more breathless. 

“If you should let go of that rope,” she gasped, “w T hat 
would happen?” 

“Nothing,” the man comforted.—The elevator boy had 
overheard much of the conversation at the desk and was 
surprised at what was taking place. 

“Young people take great chances these days,” Aunt 
Jane said, vaguely. 

Having deposited his fluttered passenger in Lewis’s rooms, 
and having bade Scruff “mind his manners,” the coloured 
boy took himself off and, regaining the street level, remarked 
to the desk man that the “queer party” had no luggage. 

“That she ain’t!” The man at the desk was beginning to 
doubt the step he had taken. 

“They be up to all kinds of tricks”—this darkly from the 
boy. 

“Keep an eye out!” said the man, and prepared to do 
likewise. 

But it turned out amazingly—this move of Aunt Jane’s— 
for all concerned except Mrs. Lewis. 

Lewis himself was deeply moved, and when he heard how 



SMOTHERED FIRES 


235 

his aunt had gained admission to his rooms, he laughed de¬ 
lightedly and tipped rather wildly. 

A new era broke in Jane Lewis’s life and she met it trem¬ 
blingly but triumphantly. Her imagination was fired, and at 
times she flushed at her own shameless thoughts. By elimi¬ 
nating Lewis as Lewis the affair took on an air of debauch. 

“A key to a gentleman’s rooms!” Aunt Jane fluttered; 
and oh! the bliss of messing about the absurd kitchenette and 
producing dainties and storing them away in the tiny ice box. 

“I declare,” Lewis remarked boyishly, “I feel like Mother 
Hubbard’s dog—only there is always something on the 
shelves.” 

Scruff soon became Aunt Jane’s abject slave, and it was a 
sight that Lewis never tired of telling about—the sight of 
Aunt Jane sewing at his west window with Scruff’s nose 
buried in her skirts. 

“I’m sure, Theodore,” Aunt Jane said one day, “I do not 
see what your mother expected. No one to sew on buttons; 
no one to mend your socks. I suppose she overlooked that.” 

“I suppose she did.” Lewis beamed on the little figure in 
the chair—he had bought a small rocker for her, the best he 
could find. “Buttons and socks do not figure largely to 
Mother in the face of grave danger.” 

“Theodore, don’t speak lightly of your mother.” 

“Heavens! I should say not, Aunt Jane.” 

Sometimes Lewis, at the day’s end, would find the little 
lady ready to depart, but wistfully lingering. 

“Now, my dear,” she would say, “you must let me go, 
indeed you must. I’ve had a wonderful day; wonderful, but 
young gentlemen cannot be bothered or pestered with old 
ladies.” 

“You’re to stay on!” Lewis would say. “I want to take 
you out to dinner. I want to ride on the bus with you. I 
want to chin.” 

And such dinners as they had in the most unbelievably 
delightful places—and the rides on the bus! Bobbing and 
wobbling on a top seat, held in place by Lewis’s firm arm, 
the stars near and friendly and the shameless lovers close by. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


236 

bringing a blush to the delicate cheek, Aunt Jane was lifted 
to the only heights she had ever known. 

And then one night Lewis spoke some of the innermost 
secrets of his heart to this small, starved woman who had 
been strangled by a dead hand from which he had escaped, 
and to his amaze Aunt Jane seemed to understand. 

“Oh, my dear boy!” she whispered, wiping her eyes fur¬ 
tively. “I hope you will never let any one cheat you of the 
best that life has to offer.” 

Lewis expanded; skirted nearer the personal. 

“Dear son”—here Aunt Jane looked about apprehen¬ 
sively—suppose any one were to hear her!—“I—I gave up 
one I loved. It’s an old story, the giving up of a beloved one 
for one who has no right to command. The suffering is all 
_on the wrong side, my dear. I was so pretty and the—the 
family expected such big things of me—and then I faded and 
disappointed them, and they did not stand by me. The man 
I loved would have stood by! He married later—men can, 
you know—and I used to stand outside his house when no one 
was watching, just for the chance of seeing him. I saw him; 
saw his wife—a brave, fine, upstanding woman she was—and 
I saw, in time, little faces pressed against the glass, waiting 
for him. Sometimes I fancied how it would be if I went up 
the steps with him and met his family, he not remembering. 
I grew to love his family.” 

“There, there, dearie!” Lewis drew her close. “It’s 
hell that they hand out to us in the name of Duty! Good 
God! I’m free at last, and I have you, Aunt Jane.” 

“Say that again, Theodore!” 

Lewis repeated it. 

“I—I pity your mother, Theodore.” 

“So do I, Aunt Jane.” 

It was after one of these sacred evenings that Jane Lewis 
confronted her sister-in-law. Loyal to the heart’s core, she 
never gave up the hope of re-uniting Lewis and his mother. 

“I’ve been to Theodore’s to-day,” she began; “he’s all 
right, sister-in-law.” 

Mrs. Lewis laid down her book of sermons. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


237 


“What do you mean by "all right’ ?” The question and the 
look flattened Aunt Jane. 

“And that dog—Scruff is his name—is such an intelligent 
and friendly creature.” 

“Don’t be a fool, Jane. And do you suppose if anything 
were wrong Theodore would let you see it?” 

“But there couldn't be anything wrong!” The small, 
defiant woman across the room stood at bay. 

“Wait and see!” This ominously and on a hard laugh. 
“A nice figure you will seem in that day, Jane. A trouble¬ 
maker in the family is a dangerous person. I have confided 
in our rector. He is to talk with you.” 

“I shall refuse to be talked to!” Jane flared courageously. 
“I have taken my stand.” 

“And I mine. I shall not leave the city. I shall be here 
when the sword falls.” 

And so they sweltered in the hot city. 

Lewis took small heed of the passage of time. He worked 
hard, gave a great deal of attention to Aunt Jane, and, in 
strangely calm fashion, was happier than he had ever been. 

Verity’s letters—and she was a prolific letter writer in 
an erratic way—gave him food for much amused and sar¬ 
donic thought. The girl poured her opinions upon him with¬ 
out restraint. 

“Just as if I were some damned priest,” Lewis profanely 
sneered. “I want her confidence, but I’m no confessional. 
There are limits.” But apparently Verity did not observe 
them. Still, through those frank epistles Lewis learned to 
know the girl as he might not in any other way. 

He paced the stifling city streets and felt nearer to Verity 
than ever before. Sometimes, absent-minded, often stum¬ 
bling, he regarded the other pacers of the night streets, men and 
women; occasionally causing others to regard him—thinking, 
thinking! Sometimes he longed to speak to them, ask them 
what was “getting” them, but he never did. He simply 
strolled until he was weary; often he sat until late on park 
benches—thinking, thinking! He was deeply, absorbingly in 
love with Verity. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


238 

“I seem to have had a hand in bringing her up,” he mused; 
“sort of trained her.” 

He pictured the little girl Verity, shy, so piteously anxious 
to please, so loyal and strong. This picture merged into the 
tall, reedy girl going away to school with her head up and her 
heart dragging her by its weight of apprehension. Then 
came Verity, the girl of nineteen, like a suddenly opened 
flower before him. It was like a miracle he once saw on a 
motion-picture screen. The closed bud, the quivering, the 
revealed flower! 

On one vacation Verity had been the awkward, slowly 
emerging girl—the next, the radiant, self-possessed young 
woman. And this brought to mind that day when Verity 
moved through the railroad station to meet Austen, while he 
stood with Mary Carlin by his side. At that memory 
Lewis always emitted an expressive “Gee!” and walked 
faster. 

Mary Carlin; Verity Leighton! The names linked, snap¬ 
ped, and sprang together again. 

Would Austen find Mary Carlin ? If he did, what would he 
do? 

“If she were dead!” he muttered, and then felt scorn for 
himself. He knew why he wanted Mary Carlin dead. If 
she were definitely disposed of. Verity need never know. 
The shadow removed, Verity could walk in light and no one 
be the wiser. He and Austen would alone keep guard. The 
business would be easy enough. 

For himself—and here Lewis was sincere—it did not mat¬ 
ter. Indeed, it gave him opportunity to prove himself. 
But do what he might, he could not shake off the sensation of 
horror when he contemplated the effect upon his mother if 
she knew all. 

Mrs. Lewis was always to remain a woman to her son; 
never again a mother. 

“We owe them something,” he argued, “we the younger 
generation. We owe to them our life, our ideals—often 
rotten ones, but the best they had to offer. How far should 
we let the hold of the past control the present, dominate the 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


239 


future? “The future is ours, anyway!” This convincing 
conclusion was like a firm rock upon which to stand and gaze 
back and forward while he paced the hot streets. 

“I’m crazy about the kid!” mused Lewis, and then re¬ 
flected that others were probably feeling the same and that 
he was a consummate ass to expect—well, what did he ex¬ 
pect ? 

“She’s running wild with that assy crowd,” he thought. 
“There’s something to say for the way girls were guarded in 

the past-” but this brought Lewis up rather sharply 

against a wall. “None of that rot!” he said to himself. “If 
you couldn’t stand it, why want to inflict it upon others?” 

And Lewis thought more and more often of Austen and the 
woman who had ruined his life. 

“Gosh! How some kinds can blur the face of the world for 
others.”—Again Mary Carlin stalked!—“Austen should 
have cut her loose while the cutting was good.” 

And now Austen took the middle of the stage. 

“Fancy! I thought I knew Barney all those years—and 
there he was quite another sort from what I thought. I won¬ 
der how much we know of anyone? There’s a confounded 
wall around us all. Walls with little doors through which 
we crawl out, at times, or let others crawl in; but walls, 
walls! God! And we all live our real lives behind the wall. 
God!” 

And the word was a prayer, such a prayer as often rises 
from a park bench. 

There was one letter from Verity that Lewis read and 
reread. It cleared his vision, in a way: 

I will never do things just because others do them, Ted—at least 
not after the first time. If you do not test things how can you 
know? I’m game for the test , then I’ll choose. I do not drink, be¬ 
cause I hate the stuff and I do not like to let go of myself. I want 
to be on the job, my job, and when people get whoozy they look so 
silly and do such mad things. I do not do some things after the first 
time, because—well, I am myself and Constance Warren made me 
feel that I do owe something to others' ideals, and her words stick. 
I go so far, no farther. 


240 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


And here came something that staggered Lewis, who had not 
read much psychology: 

Our forbears, Ted, wanted to do all that we do. That’s what they 
did for us, handed down their unfinished jobs, and then they stand 
off and cry to heaven! We’re working things out for them and they 
haven’t decency to own up. 

A chill rippled up and down Lewis’s spine. An awful 
truth seemed to burst on him from the dark. At such 
moments, shattered and blinded, he would seek his dog as the 
one safe, living thing in his universe. 

Lewis ground his teeth and set his jaws when he reflected 
upon Verity’s “tests.” That was the wrong of it all with the 
kid tribe. They never counted the possible cost of the tests 
to others, or themselves. 

Lewis felt old, old. 

And while he puckered his brows and, occasionally, swore 
under his breath, Verity was swinging along, testing and 
tasting life with high courage until- 

“Did you ever sleep in the open?” 

It was Jack Terrell who asked Verity the question. They 
had been dancing on the moonlighted piazza. They were 
warm and excited. 

“Open what?” Verity pulled the strap of her dancing 
frock up over her shoulder and laughed. 

“Just the open! Don’t cover your shoulder, Verity, why 
be a tightwad?” 

The young fellow was big, handsome, frankly appealing. 
He played a splendid game of golf and tennis, could manip¬ 
ulate any car; was openly daring and charmingly friendly. 

“Let’s come inside,” Verity suggested, for no reason at 
all except that there were moments with this boy, and some of 
his friends, when she felt her youth alarmingly; her “lack of 
background,” she called it. 

“Here’s a dare, Verry.” A broad hand touched her arm, 
her slim, childish arm. “You have the reputation of never 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


241 


taking a dare; you’re a bully sport; let us see the sunrise 
from Indian Head to-morrow! I dare you. It would be a 
great stunt. Listen. I’ll take my chummy up to the curve 
of the road and park it. At two o’clock I’ll tap at your door; 
we’ll steal out—safety-first trick, you know; eat a snack— 
I’ll have that ready—and then make for the car, take a nap 
or two, and reach the top in time to see the blooming sun 
come up. What do you say?” 

“A crazy scheme.” Verity tossed her head. 

“You’re not a sport, then,” indifferently. “I’ll tell you, 
then, for your edification, that three other couples are going 
to do it. A picnic at sunrise, fancy! I thought I’d give you 
the opportunity to prove your mettle; and now I have your 
number. Mid-Victorian is license compared to you, but 
even old Vies had picnics. Say, then, Verry, will you come 
to the sunrise shindy with the bunch? I’ll provide a chaper¬ 
on if you say so. I hate to have the others find out what a 
Puritan dub you are.” 

“Who is going?” Verity was serene. 

Six perfectly legitimate and conservative names were 
mentioned. 

“All right, I’ll go.” The beauty of the scheme caught 
Verity’s fancy. “But I’ll have to get some sleep. Will you 
wake me?” 

“Sure thing!” 

When the knock came upon Verity’s door, she stumbled 
from her bed, tried to remember what it was she had 
promised to do, and finally, recalling the picnic scheme, 
dressed quickly in bloomers, flannel shirt, sweater and cap, 
and issued forth into the dark chill of the early autumn 
morn. 

The big house was deadly still and the waiting boy led her 
forth without a word. Led her down the home trail, out 
upon the road and toward the curve ahead, where his car was 
hid behind the underbrush and there the “snack” and the 
thermos bottles awaited them. 

“Where are the others?” Verity asked, her teeth chatter¬ 
ing. 


242 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“We couldn’t park all the cars in one place. They’re 
scattered.” Terrell laughed lightly. 

This was quite true. Verity heard several “chuck- 
chucks!” as she listened. 

Once they were on the way, the fun of the thing caught her. 
There were the heartening sounds of cars on ahead; they 
would soon overtake them; there would be safety in numbers 
and more fun. That was the way—nothing was really 
horrid. Folks only liked to make believe there was for the 
sake of the thrills. 

“You’re shaking with the cold,” Jack Terrell said, pres¬ 
ently. “Or is it blue funk?” 

“Cold,” Verity chatteringly replied, “and I’m still 
hungry. I’m as hungry as a gray wolf.” 

“Here, take a swallow of this.” A flask was produced. 
“It will tide you over until breakfast.” 

“Thanks, but I hate the stuff.” 

“Well, you hate quinine, too, don’t you? But if you have 
a chill, why not take medicine?” 

Verity never could clearly recall the next hour—or perhaps 
two. She took a “swallow”—several, in fact—for the flask 
was pressed against her lips. 

Then—and she wondered if she had been asleep—she felt 
a kiss upon her lips, an arm around her. The car was parked 
beside the road. There was a sharp decline close by. Some 
words were being said; words that she vaguely understood, 
words that sounded like words in books which she had read, 
without in the least comprehending, and through them, like 
vanishing hope, the “puff, puff” of cars ahead. Cars that 
were going on, on—leaving her, and the boy beside her, 
alone! 

And then Verity suddenly seemed to be someone else. A 
little ragged somebody beating off—what? She remem¬ 
bered! In that far-away time she had beaten off what now 
threatened. She did not know what it was, now, any more 
than then, but she must beat it off! 

She struggled; she called aloud indignantly. She was 
hushed, held close. Then her mind cleared. She battled. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


243 


and was free! She struck out with all her force, struck 
angrily—there was desperation in her aim. 

As she had triumphed, at fearful cost, long ago on the 
sandy road at Bluff End, so she triumphed now. She 
sprang from the car and stood perilously near the embank¬ 
ment. 

“Don’t be a fool!” Terrell muttered. “You’re not only 
a tightwad, but you have no sense of humour or fair play.” 
He leaned forward, his young eyes blazing. 

“If you touch me I’m going to jump into that ravine!” 
Verity’s words rang sharp; each word was like a pellet of 
ice. 

“I’m not going to touch you—I wouldn’t, with a ten-foot 
pole. I know your kind, all right. You’re the kind that 
sets forests afire and then runs away. Get in—I’ll drive you 
back.” 

Verity paused. 

“Don’t you believe me?” Terrell laughed. “Can’t you 
trust your precious self to me? Well, get this into your silly 
little noddle: I’ve lost all the appetite for green fruit that 
I ever had. You’re as safe with me as you would be with 
your grandfather. Come on!” 

Verity got into the car. She was shivering and numb; she 
wasn’t afraid; nor was she any longer disgusted. She sat 
very quiet and kept her eyes ahead on the road as if she, not 
her indignant companion, were running the car. 

Certain detached thoughts and words kept recurring to her. 

“Green fruit!” 

“Grandfather!” 

In a strange, twisted fashion these words got linked. 

And then suddenly, with sickening longing, Verity yearned 
for old Ezra Taber! 

She had thought of him often lately, but she needed 
him now. He had understood, that time when she had 
beaten the boys off with a broken oar; he would understand 
again. 

Barney wouldn’t; Lewis couldn’t; Constance would be ap¬ 
palled—but old Ezra would comfort her; would let her help 


244 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


him mend nets while he set her world to rights; he would 
mend her net while she listened and forgot. 

When the roadster came within sight of the camp, the boy 
stopped short. 

“You’d better beat it by the side door,” he suggested. 
“You ought to be able to get under cover without being 
seen. Does it fit in with your ideas of propriety to keep 
your mouth shut?” 

Verity stepped down and then turned her white, drawn 
face to the boy. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know what you mean 
about me. I wish that—that it hadn’t happened. You see, 
some of us are green fruit. I guess we’ll always be green 
fruit. Good-bye. I can keep perfectly quiet. You need 
have no fear and—I’m going away to-day.” 

“Oh, come off!” the boy was touched. “Sleep on it.” 

“I will. But I’m going-” 

“Where?” 

“To my—my——” almost the words “Granddad Ezra” 
escaped her. 

“To my grandfather!” this came proudly. 

“Didn’t know you had one.” 

“Didn’t you? Well, I have, and I want him!” 

“For God’s sake, don’t cry!” The boy looked frightened. 

“I—I won’t. Good-bye.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 



T COVERLY life went monotonously on. It was like 


living in safety behind a barricade. Once the de- 


-** fences fell, who could estimate the danger from with¬ 
out? So it behooved one to look to the defences. 

Constance lay for weeks upon a couch in the living room or 
on the porch by day and hobbled, with Warren’s help, to her 
room at night. He always left her just outside her door, 
with a light kiss and a cheery word. 

He repeated to her at times when they were alone snatches 
of verse that he wrote in the tower room, or on his walks. 
His eyes were gaining strength and vision; he was amazed at 
times to realize how indifferent he was to this marvellous 
thing that had happened to him. 

“To see!” he repeated. “To see!” Then added: “See 
what?” Mentally and spiritually he was stretching. He 
knew, at his best moments, what it was he saw. He saw 
reality for the first time in his life. 

His early youth had been vision-swept and melodramatic¬ 
ally lived. It had been glory to starve for his art. All the 
cant phrases had upheld his irresponsible existence; had 
helped him to defy opinions of saner people. 

“Sacrifice everything for your art. . . .’ f “Die if you 

must, but on your shield.” 

It was comparatively easy while that small but safe in¬ 
come from his aunt existed. She believed, or tried to be¬ 
lieve, she was giving him a start. He had laughed and sung 
his way along. Sometimes he had been hungry, sometimes 
threadbare, “all in the day’s work.” He had taken deep 
draughts of certain phases of life during those few years, 
and then the appalling catastrophe fell upon him. Sickness, 
blindness, approaching death! 


245 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


246 

Warren had read of such things, but that he should be 
singled out for such a tragedy seemed more than he could bear. 
But he had borne it, and because he was too cowardly, or 
too brave, to end it, he bore it with courage and a dramatic 
bravado. He would “go down with flags flying!” Mere 
phrases, but they helped him play his part while he was 
dying in Italy. 

Then Constance—and more dreams; dreams tinged with 
reality, as he neared the waking stage, deserted by death. 

Looking back, Warren believed he had got his first clear 
vision with Austen’s coming. He had tried to close his mind 
to the interpretation others gave, but he felt that he had al¬ 
ways known , from that moment, and that it was more anger 
than surprise that had caused him to strike so viciously at old 
Good all. 

He had been forced to face what he already knew! 

“A blind beggar sunning himself in a woman’s gener¬ 
osity,” he groaned. Never, for a moment, did Warren doubt 
Constance’s finest qualities. Goodall’s poison at last be¬ 
came merely a quickening force in his brain; never a killing 
one. 

He felt fairly certain that he had the right idea about 
Austen and Constance. Something had driven them apart, 
and with the wildness that ran in even her pure blood she had 
sought escape through her mad marriage. 

“But why, in God’s name, should she annex me?” he 
pondered in stern humility, little comprehending the mad¬ 
ness of suddenly unleashed tendencies and untrained imagina¬ 
tion. “But how she did act her part!” At this, poor 
Warren groaned again. And then, something had driven 
Austen across her path again only to find . . . 

And here Warren steeled himself to confront the issue. 

Austen had seen plain enough what all the world—even 
that drunken scoundrel, Goodall—saw. Austen could esti¬ 
mate dreams and call things by their right names. 

Austen had never dreamed. Whatever his part in life’s 
game had been, it was no dream rot. 

Verity! 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


247 

Warren even clutched at Verity without shock. That 
much his early years had done for him. They had made 
him shock-proof to the consequences of vagrant passion. 

“But why bring the girl and Constance together? . . . 

Queer! Queer!” And so Warren dragged through the days. 

For comfort, he would, in a humorous way, count the 
events that at least held a semblance of self-respect. 

He had not been a beast with Constance—he had left her 
with memories that need not shame her. He had never 
demanded; he and she had known a little hour, set apart, even 
from his damned dreams and her reason, for knowing life at 
any cost. 

What an hour that had been! No past, no future—just a 
bubble freed from its source. It had held colour, form. It 
had floated in space and—burst! 

Then Warren reflected upon the south chamber. He was 
glad that he, not she, had sought the south chamber! 

He was glad he had felled Goodall. In patches he had 
played the man. At least played it. 

And now if he could, without too much brutality, set 
Constance free, really free, he might hope, in the future, to 
find peace. If he could make her believe that years did 
count; that with seeing eyes he recognized that there had 
been a cruel joke played upon him and her by a humorous 

Fate- At this juncture Warren flinched. Any such course 

would be brutal and heartless, but at least it would set her 
free. Her pride, her fineness, would come to her rescue. 
There was only one way! 

Warren felt as a surgeon might who has vision to see be¬ 
yond the operation and to the gain to be secured by the 
operation. 

But, Warren plunged on, what would happen after? With¬ 
out a cent, with nowhere to go—where could he go? A 
beggar, even with slow-coming sight, could not travel far on 
nothing. Facts were facts. 

Defiant as he might be, insulting as he might be obliged 
to appear, he could not escape the divine pity and tenderness 
of Constance. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


248 

There were times when Warren again contemplated throw¬ 
ing himself on the mercy and blood ties of his Aunt Charlotte. 
Surely if she knew the truth she would rally to his need. 

But would she? Warren smiled grimly. His aunt was a 
woman to whom truth meant what she accepted as truth. 
And what could he offer, as security, for any loan she might 
make? Pictures that no one wanted, verses that lacked 
promise, even? 

And so the days at Coverly passed: Constance consecrat¬ 
ing herself anew to Warren—what else could she do?—and 
Warren beating against the cruel wall of his helplessness and 
poverty, while his generous soul longed at last to prove 
itself. 

The routine helped. There were the daily rounds, and 
when Constance began to hobble about, new duties ap¬ 
peared. 

“How strong you are growing, Vance!” Constance 
would say, leaning heavily upon his arm. “I am always 
seeing you now as you looked that day at Rocky Lonesome. 
After such a feat, what may not one expect of you?” 

“Anything, or nothing!” And Warren gave his long- 
practised laugh. 

It was in September that letters from Austen mentioned 
his homecoming. And then old Jonas Goodall died. He had 
become, at the last, a helpless, trying child. He demanded 
all of Nancy’s strength and time; he cried for her, held her 
when she came near him; obeyed her slavishly, muttered 
sense and nonsense, and strange to say, became dearer to 
Nancy than he had ever been. In him she saw her little 
children; his clutch became their tender hold. By shutting 
her eyes against the grizzled face on the pillow, she could see 
little baby faces, and to her quivering lips rose lullabies that 
long had lain buried in her faithful heart. 

As the end drew near, she treated Jonas like a loved but 
troubling child. 

“Come, dearie,” she would say, striving to r^iake him ready 
for sleep; “come and tell Mother all the naughty and good 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


249 


things he has done—then we’ll wash the slate and sing a 
good-night song and say a prayer.” 

This method of procedure had a remarkable effect upon 
Jonas. At first he would resent it with flashing intelligence. 

“None of that, now!” he would fling out. “None of them 
Smith wheedles and whozzles. Do you forget who you’re 
talking to?” 

“No, son dear, I know full well. But what are Smiths for 
but to help Goodalls up and on ? Come, now, let me bathe 
you and sing you to sleep.” 

The bathing accomplished, the prayer was insisted upon: 
“Forgive; make me good. Amen.” Then the blessed old 
crooning song—and sleep. 

Nancy became a mere shadow of herself and her shoulders 
bent under her burden, but her spirit flamed in her brave eyes, 
and she walked as one does who carries a sacred cross to 
Gethsemane. 

A week before he died Jonas seemed to regain, somewhat, 
his mentality, and one night after the bathing he muttered: 

“I want to tell you something—something I done—bad. 
Do you think God can forgive if I own up ?” 

Nancy was startled. The tone, the clear eyes, frightened 
her. Her pose as mother to a troubling child vanished. 

“I’m listening, Jonas,” she said firmly. 

“He had no right to hit me! He’s a young feller!*” the 
weak apology! 

“Who, Jonas ?” There was iron in the tone. 

“Warren.” 

“What did he hit you for?” 

“I ain’t going to answer your questioning,” Jonas scowled. 

“You’ll have to answer to the Almighty, Jonas.” This 
frightened the old man and he whimpered. Nancy did not 
stir; she was waiting. 

Presently, in choking, gasping words, Jonas confessed. 

“I guess I was drunk—things I had heard leaked through— 
and I couldn’t stop ’em. I heard once as how Constance 
had bought Warren for—for hiding a dirty secret-” 

“Stop, Jonas!” Nancy seemed to rise and tower over the 


250 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


bed, though her little crooked body did not move. “I ain’t 
going to have my mind filled with filth. Go on, leaving that 
out!” 

“If it ain’t true, why don’t he cut and leave, then?” Jonas 
blubbered. “There’s no getting away from common sense. 
Warren ain’t staying on for nothing.” 

Nancy was speeding ahead of Jonas, lighted by a gleam of 
pity. 

“ You bore false witness, Jonas,” she whispered when Good- 
all paused to pant and catch his breath. 

“Where there’s much smoke”-—hoarsely—“there’s bound 
to be some fire,” the old man wheezed. 

“’Tain’t up to us to fan the flame to fury, Jonas.” 

Then, after a heart-breaking silence, Nancy gazed upon 
the face on the pillow and her heart softened, for she saw 
intelligence fading. 

“Jonas, can you tell that tale to God and hope for forgive¬ 
ness?” she asked, with the last remnant of sternness. 

“He was young and I was old,” Jonas wheezed. 

“You must offer to God fruits of repentance,” she went on. 

“Don’t, don’t punish!” whined the old man, sinking into 
senility. “I didn’t mean to, I’ll be good. Drink . . . 

just for fun. I’ll make it all right with him—tell him it was 
a—joke. Give him money!” 

Inspiration seemed to flare in the weak voice. 

“Stop, Jonas! Stop!” 

“Going to punish me?” 

“No.” 

“Then sing to me. I’m plumb tired.” 

And Nancy sang. 

“Say a prayer. Too tired . . . too tired to say it.” 

“God forgive him. Make him a good boy, because-” 

That was it: Because! Because what? 

Well, God alone knew what had driven Jonas one way 
and her another. 

“Because . . . Because . . . Dear God, help 

us all, Amen!” 

And that night Jonas died in his sleep. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


251 


The night of the funeral Nancy closed the door of her 
home and sighed. She was desperately lonely; her arms 
ached from emptiness, but she had a sense of relief that she 
had never known before. 

“I declare,” she faltered, “it feels like I had all my children 
tucked up for the night—even the erring one.” 

Always after that Nancy thought of Jonas as the “erring 
one.” It comforted her, gave her courage to undertake the 
righting, as far as in her lay, of the mistakes he had 
made. 

As she folded his old, worn clothes she folded with them 
the emptiness and resentment that she had often felt. She 
began, as people often do, to blame herself. She should 
have been more patient; perhaps she had been too 
stern, had restricted him too much. It must have been 
humiliating for a Goodall to feel dependent; to have only his 
pittance from the Government with which to indulge his 
personal tastes. 

The faded, patched garments rose in mute protest against 
Nancy’s thrift and miserliness. Poor Nancy. Her “erring 
one” soon became her dearest. All his virtues and generous 
deeds sprang into bloom. Nancy could not see, dear soul, 
that they were of her own sowing, not his. 

And then when the old house was once more orderly and 
cheerful, she faced the lonely future. 

What was she to do? To live for herself alone was impos¬ 
sible. She, with her lawyer, took account of stock. 

“Mrs. Goodall,” he said, “you are a rich woman!” Then 
he smiled. “Let me see. You have an income of four 
thousand a year and your land. You should make your 
land swell your income. Vermont is no longer a farming 
state, but it is God’s own garden spot. I would advise putting 
your property on the market and so turn it over to summer 
folk. They pay high.” 

Nancy nodded. The Goodall land was not sacred in her 
eyes—she came of a roving stock—but suddenly, as inspira¬ 
tion comes, she saw a way to serve her erring one. She would 
be his deputy; it was his land, it should wipe out his obliga- 


252 SMOTHERED FIRES 

tions. It should, in some way, make people remember him 
kindly. 

“I would take it as a kindness,” she said to the man of 
business, “if you would manage the sales. Fd like to keep 
Lower Farm and the hill”—there lay her babies and Jonas; 
there lay his stiff-necked, irresponsible forbears—“for the 
rest it would be mighty comforting to me to have it made to 
bloom and flourish.” 

The man smiled again, and reported in the village that 
“blood would tell. No sooner had Jonas been buried than 
that old skinflint was ready to put his land upon the block! 
No wonder Goodall kicked over the traces. Fancy the life 
he must have led.” 

But Nancy was following the gleam that had come to her 
while the lawyer talked. 

She undertook retracing old Jonas’s tracks. She dis¬ 
covered to whom he owed money. Often this was not neces¬ 
sary, for claimants pressed their rights. She paid with in¬ 
terest and pitifully stipulated that “nothing more should be 
said.” 

And in due time Nancy inevitably came to Warren in her 
investigations. Suppose! Her kind old heart ached. Sup¬ 
pose there was something; something innocent and pitiful 
enough, God knew, in what gossip said. 

“Poor soul! How can he do the right thing—show him¬ 
self a man—if he hasn’t a cent to his name?” she whispered. 

Surely no more delicate and treacherous a task ever con¬ 
fronted a woman than confronted Nancy. 

“And yet,” she thought, her face shining, “between men 
it might be possible. One lending, the other borrowing and 
paying back. And Jonas is a rich man.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


O LD Ezra let fall the strands of the net that he was 
mending. Some breaks are so discouraging. This 
one had been so. 

“Just tarnation carelessness,” Ezra had remarked when he 
first saw it; “left to be trampled on, when a little thought 
about hanging it up would have spared it.” 

“Is it past mending?” the owner had inquired. 

“Till there ain’t no strand,” Ezra retorted, “I ain’t ever 
going to say that about a net or a human.” 

But the task had been tedious and the old fingers were stiff, 
so the strands continually dropped. 

There was a brisk breeze blowing off sea, a breeze that 
might develop into a vigorous gale by nightfall, and winds 
and storm meant more to the old man, now, than once they 
had. He realized, often, that the comfort he had given the 
woman of the yellow house, concerning a light set in the 
north window, was really not to be relied on. Between 
Taber’s cottage and the Barnacle stretched a level, open, 
sandy space. Several houses, once occupied by the summer 
people, had fallen, or been burned, and on a clear night a 
light might easily attract Ezra’s attention if Jean Fancher 
set one, but fog or “dirty” weather would blot it out, and 
so Ezra put it frankly to his God and prayed that, should 
need arise for help, the night might be propitious. 

Jean Fancher was a stern responsibility to Ezra. He 
often felt mentally weary “pulling her to shore” as he put 
it. 

“She can’t seem,” he thought, “to open up to the Lord and 
let His mercy in.” 

While Ezra sat with her and sang his hymns and explained 
the words, the woman listened, transformed. She caught 


253 


254 SMOTHERED FIRES 

the glory, but the glory seemed to follow Ezra when he went 
out into the night. 

“I have the feeling,” Ezra admitted to himself, “as if she 
was following me, holding to me, whispering.” 

The truth was, Jean Fancher was haunting Ezra, as she 
had haunted others, binding them by her weakness, not her 
strength, poor soul. 

And as Ezra with the net at his feet nodded and dreamed, 
the Boston boat came quietly in and someone, bag in hand, 
walked up to the cabin; stopped short at the sight of the dear 
old sleeping man, with his white hair rising and falling in the 
breeze, and regarded him through dimming eyes. 

Behind the magic mist of tears the searching gaze noted 
the thin, blue-veined temples, the sharpened jaw, the droop¬ 
ing, patient hands. Old age had dealt sacredly with Ezra, 
but it had claimed him for its own and, in sleep, set its mark 
definitely upon him. 

When he awoke, the undying, unquenchable soul of him 
would defy age, but now Ezra slept and dreamed. Presently 
he shivered, opened his eyes—was it raining? Something 
like rain drops had fallen on his cheek. 

Then Ezra looked. Looked, and with the vision that sees 
back and beyond, he saw. 

“Little gal Verity!” The whispered words were faltering. 
Dreams and reality—they merged at times. 

“Granddad, say that you know me. Say that you remem¬ 
ber.” 

How beautiful she was, leaning over the old man like a tall, 
pale, golden-white lily. 

“Like a tall lily!” Someone had called Verity that 
once—it was Jack Terrell, the boy who had imagination even 
if it were often wrongly directed. 

Gazing, reaching out, old Ezra feared that he was still 
dreaming. Verity might look like that, he reasoned, in 
heaven, but not on earth. So might one hope to recognize 
his dear ones, gone long since. 

He knew her. Would he not know her anywhere, at any 
time? But what had happened? 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


255 


“Little gal Verity,” he repeated dully. 

Then Verity bent lower, seemed to take him in her arms. 
That touch of healing worked a miracle; it cured the weari¬ 
ness, the loneliness. 

Presently he founds words to ask: 

“What favouring wind bore ye to this port, lass?” 

“Oh, I am going to tell you, Granddad, tell you every¬ 
thing. But first let me change my clothes. Eve brought 
things that will make me feel, and look, less strange.” 

“You look mighty fine and dazzling.” Ezra noted details. 

“That’s what I do not want to look. Oh! my dear, my 
dear. Stay just where you are until I come back.” And 
she drifted from sight. 

“Just like mist,” the old man thought. 

Ezra did not move. His brain reacted slowly; he would 
not be surprised if the vision did not reappear, but from off 
in the quiet of “God’s Room” a song rose and fell, reassur¬ 
ingly. The words made Ezra smile—they were from a 
rollicking sea song: 

And it’s all sails set, and all hands on deck; 

And here’s to the blue, blue sea. 

While that voice sounded, Ezra could afford to wait and hope. 

Soon she came back to him. She had put on a simple 
linen gown; her short, fine hair was free—she looked like 
young Launcelot, and her eyes were happy and at peace. 

“I’m going to stay until I’ve emptied my soul, Granddad, 
and no one knows where I am. No one shall know until 
I’m all through.” 

“That’s high-handed, lass.” 

Oh, the luxury of taking her for granted; feeling free to 
speak to her! 

“I’m going to be high-handed and stiff-necked, Granddad. 
Barney is keeping his own counsels, and he is the only one 
who has any claim on me. By the time he knows anything 
he’ll know all about everything.” 

Verity turned a basket over and sat down. 


256 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“What’s the news, dear?” she asked. 

“Well, there’s lobsters for supper.” Ezra chuckled. 
“The critters acted all day yesterday as if they was bent on 
getting caught. Like as not they sensed your coming.” 

“Very likely!” Verity smiled. 

“And”—the uppermost thought leaked out—“the yellow 
house is rented.” 

Verity turned startled eyes on Ezra. 

“Who is there?” she asked. 

“Not her as once was, child. I reckon the woman who is 
there is only a passer-by.” 

“I had hoped the summer folks would never come back, 
Granddad.” 

“They ain’t—nor like to come. Most of the houses are 
fallen fiat or have burned down. The Barnacle, as its name 
is, stuck, and this poor soul as bides there is health-hunting, 
that’s all.” 

“Well, I’m glad we need not count her in. Oh, Granddad, 
how I have wanted to come back, and find that things had 
waited for me!” 

“Well, there ain’t much change.” Then the old eyes 
grew keen and wistful, and Ezra asked bluntly: 

“What brought you here, lass, sudden and unspoken? 
After the telling we can go along more comfortable-like.” 

Verity, rocking to and fro, her arms encircling her knees, 
answered simply: 

“You know how I always was, Granddad, when I was most 
frightened?” 

“Yes, I recollect, lass.” 

“How I did the wildest things?” 

“Yes. You was a reckless, fearless lass.” 

“Granddad, I have been so frightened!” 

“What’s scared you, child? Like as not it ain’t reason¬ 
able. Most scare things are not.” 

“That day when I beat the boys off with the broken oar, 
Granddad—do you remember?” 

“I do that!” Ezra smiled grimly. “Not long since, Nat 
Coles—he was one of the boys—came in from a foreign voy- 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


257 


age and stayed with me. He’s an upstanding, decent man 
now, but he spoke about you, child, and he told me that 
when the devil rose in him, as it does in some men of his sort, 
he recalled the look in your eyes that day you beat him off. 
He ’lowed that that memory had saved him many a black 
hour of shame and many a woman from cursing him. There 
is a scar still on his cheek bearing witness to the clout you 
gave him.” 

“Oh! Granddad, is that what one must always fear— 
women, I mean?” 

“It’s a danger, lass.” 

“I am a woman, Granddad, and I am afraid!” 

“A woman, sure enough”—Ezra held the girl in his pro¬ 
tecting glance, firmly—“made out of odds and ends of the 
gal Verity, but the hand of the Lord has fashioned the woman 
of you. Perhaps He’s had to twist and turn the scraps to 
make them fit His design. He may have snipped a bit here, 
and patched a bit there, but what He has wrought need fear 
no harm. Perfect love, lass, casteth out fear. What has 
raken you off guard?” 

And how easy it was to speak and tell the old man every¬ 
thing! It was as Verity knew that it would be; Ezra, with 
the unworldly wisdom that draws its power from unfailing 
sources, understood. 

“’Tis dangerous, Verity,” Ezra spoke at last, patting the 
fair head resting, now, upon his knee, “to tackle any job 
till you know the nater of the job. But them is young ways 
—the ways of sailing without a chart. I don’t know as them 
ways are altogether bad, either. They open up grand chan¬ 
nels, sometimes, and find new gifts of God. But I’m glad ye 
came to me, lass, to get your breath, so to speak.” 

After that the days passed like unbroken links in a strong 
chain. Happy, safe days. The recent past was rarely re¬ 
ferred to: the present held them both. 

“Will you join me and visit her as is at the Barnacle?” 
Ezra asked on the third day. 

“If you do not mind, I won’t, Granddad. I want only 
you; I’d like to shut everyone else out, and if I went to the 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


258 

yellow house I feel sure I would see poor little ragged Verity 
slinking about and—well, I don’t like ghosts!” 

So while Ezra took his long strolls, or sat between the dark 
and the light with Jean Fancher, Verity cooked and mended; 
fished; played with the children on the sands and grew un¬ 
afraid. 

To the woman of the yellow house Ezra did not mention 
his visitor. 

“I ain’t yet lived to see the male or female that wouldn’t 
feel curious,” he thought, “and unless the Lord brings folks 
together in spite of everything, it’s just as well to keep your 
hands off.” 

Jean Fancher was not so well. More and more she sat in 
the sun on the porch, or lay on the couch in the living room. 

‘ She used but two rooms of the cottage, the kitchen and the 
living room. Ezra had brought her bed to the latter and 
near it stood her trunk. When the night fell and the shut¬ 
ters were drawn, the light would shine through the half¬ 
moon slits far on toward morning, and often the lonely woman 
would take her treasures from the trunk and lay them, side by 
side, upon the bed while she counted them, as one might 
the beads of a rosary, for comfort. 

And at times, when all the world seemed asleep, Ezra and 
Verity paced the sandy shore and found happiness in the 
lonely dark that so terrified Jean Fancher. 

Eventually Verity wrote to Lewis. Taking for granted 
that he knew more than he did, she spoke openly of Ezra, 
of childhood days, before Barney came. 

“So that’s where they hid the kid!” Lewis whistled 
amazedly. “They certainly had the nerve to set her adrift 
down there and, by the Lord Harry, how I have been thinking 
I knew things!” 

Do not come down here, Ted. I demand this. I am finding 
myself, and I do not want any interference. My blessed Mender of 
Nets is all I need, all I seem to want—just now. 

When I get ready to come home, I’ll come. If you hear of Bar¬ 
ney’s return, fly a signal. Of course I want to be there to meet him. 

You may write to me, Ted. Short, breezy letters. Tell me 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


259 

about Scruff. Tell me about Sheila O’Neil. Isn’t it queer, Ted, 
how some people and some dogs rise to the surface? 

Lewis read, reread, laughed a little, grew strangely serious, 
and wrote short letters. 

Occasionally Ezra and Verity spoke of Jean Fancher, for 
the woman was largely in the old man’s thought. 

“Where did she come from, Granddad?” This was asked 
indifferently, for Verity rarely thought of the yellow house as 
it now was. 

“From wandering up and down the earth, lass. She’s 
nigh spent. I reckon”—this slowly, compassionately—“I 
reckon she was one as—as couldn’t beat things off—the 
things that beset women. Even a broken oar is more than 
some folks have.” This with a hesitating laugh, for the 
figure of speech pleased the old man. 

“Oh!” Verity raised her head a bit. 

The gesture hurt Ezra; there was a spiritual withdraw- 
ing. 

“Don’t scorn such as have no weapon, my girl,” he said, 
almost sternly. “Him who walked by Galilee took time to 
point our way when dealing with such.” 

“I—I have no scorn, Granddad, but the old fear—I hate 
that, and I do not want to—to think of it.” 

“That will pass, lass, and, please God, it will give place 
to a love and helpfulness that can be used for them still in 
the fear and who cannot seem to defend themselves.” 

“Oh, you blessed!” Verity gave a happy laugh. “How 
strong you are! No wonder that God of yours uses you to 
the limit.” 

Then, casually: “I was thinking the other night, while 
you were calling on that woman at the yellow house, that 
some day I would go with you. There are certain things I’d 
like to find, if they are still there. I do not suppose this 
woman would mind-” 

“Mind what, lass?” 

“Oh, if I snooped a bit. Up in the attic Mrs. Thomley 
had some boxes; in one were letters, I—I think some from 



260 SMOTHERED FIRES 

my mother—and photographs—sometimes she let me see the 
pictures.” 

“Like as not she took everything with her that she prized,” 
Ezra remarked, “though there was a litter left as ain’t been 
touched, as far as I know.” 

“Fd love to find out, Granddad. There was one photo¬ 
graph of a garden—I lived there before I came here. I used 
to tell you about it.” 

“I recollect.” 

“And there were some others of me—queer, sorry-looking 
little snapshots. Mrs. Thomley used to send snapshots to 
my mother while she cared for her.” 

“Well, I fancy Mrs. Fancher won’t object, if you chance 
in on one of her best days. She don’t hanker after company, 
- but she is a friendly sort, once the ice is broke. “ I ain’t going 
to warn her—she’s terrible skittish—but I w~as studying out 
the other day that I might run to Bosting while you’re here, 
lass. There is business what Captain Locke says that I 
oughter tend to. Drawing money and signing papers and 
what-not. If I go you might happen up to the Barnacle and 
explain and take some things. I’ll make a list-” 

“Granddad, are you giving that strange woman money?” 
Verity pointed an accusing finger. 

“I ain’t, that! I’m lending the Lord’s money, that’s all, 
and a pitiful little goes a long way.” 

“Oh, you dear! I used to tell the people at Five Winds 
about you. They called you names.” 

“Names ain’t scaring me none!” 

“They need not, Granddad—not such names as they 
called you.” 

“Well, as I was saying,” Ezra went on, “you might happen 
up to the Barnacle and things would naterally fall into line. 
You have a wheedling way, when you’re after game. What 
you say?” 

“Of course, go, Granddad. I’ll be glad to stay and help. 
May I see your bank book?” 

“You may not! The impudence of you!” 

“Granddad, you’ll wreck yourself.” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


261 


‘Til chance it. I know whose hand is on my rudder. ,, 

A few days later, garbed in what he termed his “luxuries,” 
Ezra went off with his friend on the Boston boat. 

Verity stood on the wharf, waving her hand. Then sud¬ 
denly, irrelevantly, she thought: 

“ I wonder what we can ever give that will equal Granddad, 
Aunt Nancy Goodall, and their kind?” 

She was thinking of school talks. Talks that started from 
the supposition that the young owned the world. This 
wholesome humility was health-giving. It was food for 
contemplation and brought about a sanctifying state of 
mind. Beside her late associates, certain people loomed 
high. 

“Learning and testing are all right”—so the thought ran, 
often on the lilt of a tune—“if they don’t get you. I guess 
Granddad is right—the world is right—everything is right if 
we leave God in! God, a real, working God, saves the day.” 

And then one glorious morning, feeling reinforced and 
secure, Verity took a basket of food and started for the yellow 
house. But she wandered a little from the direct path and 
made her way to the churchyard. She had evaded it hereto¬ 
fore—it brought back poignant memories. 

“I’ll just take a look at the grave of the Unknown 
Woman,” she said. 


CHAPTER XXV 


I T WAS a rare blue day, with dashes of sunlight and 
shadow. The air was soft and warm, as it often is near 
the sea when farther inland the temperature is lower. It 
was a day to lure one to the open; it was full of promise, and 
Jean Fancher had responded to the call. 

She had missed Ezra wofully; had tried to recall his 
words as she sat in the gloaming of the two days since she 
„ had seen him. When doubt rose, she defended Ezra. The 
poor shrivelled soul of Jean Fancher stirred to that extent. 

“He has not deserted me,” she had repeated over and over 
as the night fell. “He’s not that kind. Perhaps he is 
ill.” This made her tremble. 

Ezra ill! Ezra dead! What would become of her if evil 
befell the old man? Was everyone to die and leave her? 
The desperate thought of old Ezra’s possible death drove 
Jean Fancher to almost superhuman exertion. She must find 
out, if possible, what had kept him away for two long days 
and two nerve-straining evenings. 

To go to Ezra’s cottage was out of the question. The 
huddled huts were full of curious people, none the less curious 
because they were silent and calm visaged. And the chil¬ 
dren! Jean Fancher shrank from the children. Among 
them she seemed to be searching always for a little fair¬ 
haired, barelegged creature who had been rescued and saved, 
taken from her, and for whom she had sworn to fare afar in 
order to secure, for that little girl, safety. 

But if Jean Fancher could not go to Ezra’s house, she could, 
with the aid of a cane, get to the graveyard. Why the old man 
should go there if he were unable to get to her, the woman 
did not question. She must move in some direction and so 

262 


SMOTHERED FIRES 263 

she hobbled forth into the sunlight, like a poor, unhappy- 
ghost escaping from its haunts. 

It took a long while to reach the grave where there was 
the bench upon which to rest and think, and when Jean Fan- 
cher reached it she was so breathless and tired that, leaning 
back with closed eyes, she seemed like a ghastly corpse left 
unburied. 

And as the woman sat so, Verity, with bowed head, ad¬ 
vanced. She was thinking; thinking. How far, far in the 
past some things were—Anna Thomley and poor little rag¬ 
ged Verity. And yet still farther off—somewhere in the 
future, it seemed—there was the girl Verity, the girl that 
people had dressed and educated and placed here, there, any¬ 
where, as necessity arose. 

That girl, and the shabby child Verity, seemed equally 
detached from the strange emotions that now possessed the 
slow-moving creature seeking, with bowed head, the grave 
of the Unknown Woman. 

It was wonderful, this sense of controlling the past and 
the future. Verity had never experienced it before. It was 
an element peculiarly her own—her own! Anna Thomley 
had not touched it; it had escaped even Barney. No one 
had harmed it or controlled it. 

“I suppose,” thought the girl, “that it is my soul, the part 
of me that no one has a right to touch—or find!” This 
came vehemently. “It’s queer, this feeling. It’s like dis¬ 
covering something and knowing that I, I alone, govern 
it.” 

Thought, light as the summer clouds, at this point touched 
the loved ones who, oddly enough, appeared at the ecstatic 
moment to be imploring her to remember them; not to cast 
them off. This made her smile. “I won’t, Barney dear, 
and Ted. I won’t cut you dead—only hands off! Hands 
off! I’m coming; I’m coming. You’ll hardly know me— 
something has happened that just had to happen. I—I can 
never turn back, dears, and some of the way, on ahead, I 
must go alone. I had to find that out, and I have!” 

Borne on the wings of the spiritual experience, Verity 


264 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


rested in thought on Coverly; on Barney travelling alone and 
bearing his secret burdens. 

“We’re all on the road,” she mused, “all of us alone much 
of the time. I never understood before, but I do now.” 

And in imagination the girl saw a broad highway over 
which she and her dear ones were travelling. Some paused 
to speak; some walked beside others for a stretch—Barney 
and Constance; then Constance and Vance. Presently— 
and it seemed thrillingly real—there were Verity and Lewis 
swinging along joyously. 

“The idea!” gasped Verity, the on-looking Verity. “The 
idea!” 

And still the vision persisted. Verity and Lewis swinging 
along. They were singing; they did not have to explain. 
Suddenly they parted and, still smiling, waved happily as if 
knowing the separation would be brief—no need even then of 

explanations—just going on; going on- The girl in the 

graveyard shivered and came to the realization that she had 
been day-dreaming to rather an alarming extent. 

But was she still mooning? There, before her, was a 
ghost. 

“Oh!” she gasped. 

Jean Fancher opened her eyes and seemed to shrivel as she 
raised her hand as though warding off a blow. 

“Where did you come from ?” she cried, and her scarred face 
turned blue-white; and her eyes closed again. Verity sprang 
forward, took possession of the trembling hands, and drew 
the woman toward her to prevent her falling from the seat. 

“Oh, I am sorry,” she soothed. “I have frightened you. 
Fm staying with Ezra Taber—didn’t you know?” 

“No. Please go away.” The closed eyes did not open. 

“But you are ill. Let me help you back to the cottage. 
Let me send one of the women to you. Old Ezra is away.” 

“No, no. I want nobody; nothing. I will be over this 
soon—just a bad turn—I did not—see you coming.” 

“But I cannot leave you alone,” Verity said. Then Jean 
Fancher, losing control of herself, did an alarming, thing. 
She struggled to her feet, pulled her hands from the restrain- 


SMOTHERED FIRES 265 

ing grasp and, holding to the back of the wooden seat, cried 
hoarsely: 

“If you do not go, do not leave me, I must go away, go 
away from the only shelter I have. Oh, leave me alone; 
please; please.” 

The incoherence, the apparent fright, caused Verity to 
retreat. 

“Of course I will go,” she said. “I do not want to cause 
you any trouble. Are you sure you can be left safely?” 

“Yes, yes!”—desperately. 

Unnerved and shocked, Verity retraced her steps. 

“Ell leave this basket at the cottage,” she said, and 
walked on. “The poor creature is mad,” she thought; 
“that’s why Granddad has said so little about her. I am 
sorry, and Em afraid myself. She looked as if she were the 
Unknown Woman caught out of her grave.” 

But there was little to frighten one, after all. The cool, 
sun-bright day was one for joy, not tragedy, and Verity was 
quite herself once the beach was reached and the shouting, 
dancing children ran to meet her. 

“We’ll have a picnic,” she finally decided. “A clam-bake 
and all the beach welcome.” 

The children shouted with joy and willing hands and ready 
feet did her bidding. It was late afternoon before Verity 
seriously thought of the woman of the yellow house again. 

“I must find out if she got safely back; Ell wait for dark¬ 
ness and then spy on her. If she does not see me, she will 
get no shock; if I do not see her, at close range, I will not lose 
my nerve. And I must know about her if I am to sleep com¬ 
fortably.” 

But when the yellow house was reached it was shuttered 
and dark, except as the raised eyebrows of light testified to 
the presence of the mistress. 

“It’s going to be a dirty night,” Verity prophesied, sniffing 
in the dark. “I hate to leave any one sick and alone. 
But”— and she turned and went back to Ezra’s cabin—“one 
cannot force herself upon another—even a mad other.” 

At ten o’clock the approaching storm, by deep, reverberat- 


266 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


ing booms, announced its coming. The wind had a sinister 
sound. It seemed to be creeping in from the farthest quar¬ 
ters of the earth, gathering force and fury as it came. Verity 
turned in her bed, listened, got up, and went to the window. 
She was not sleeping comfortably, after all. 

“In a black storm or fog,” she thought, “no one could see 
the light in the yellow house. What could Granddad be 
thinking of? It’s horribly dangerous leaving that sick 
woman alone.” 

Again Verity returned to her bed and, shutting her eyes, 
resorted to a trick that she had learned at school and which 
usually brought sleep. 

“Now, then, think dark!” she whispered. “So! Now 
watch. Forms—light and shade—follow them—drive them 
off the dark. Dark; dark-” 

But the magic did not work, and Verity once more arose 
and sought the window. 

“She wouldn’t fly a signal anyway,” she mused. “I gave 
her an awful fright. I wonder why? I don’t usually have 
that effect upon folks.” 

This was amusing. Then: 

“Well, personalities do not count. I must act for Grand¬ 
dad. What would Granddad do?” 

Presently Verity dressed. 

“No harm in being ready!” A moment later she decided: 
“I’m going to make sure; and then I can sleep and forget 
it.” 

When it came to facing the storm Verity began to under¬ 
stand its menace. Of old she knew its breed. Like a mighty 
army it would slowly advance, sweeping all before it. There 
would be signals from ships beyond the bar—or on it! There 
would be high waves reaching the water line, and to-morrow 
the beach would be strewn with wreckage. 

And while Verity pushed on, matching her puny strength 
against the gale, Jean Fancher was rallying her forces, com¬ 
bating blinding fear, spiritual and physical. 

The sight of Verity had all but killed her. 

In coming to Bluff End so many things had swayed herthat 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


267 

the one relating to Verity’s connection with the old yellow 
house had seemed insignificant, until now, in the glaring hour 
of materialization, she realized that, under all, through all, 
the hope of Verity’s return had been the motive power in all 
her actions. No longer could she deceive herself. If, in 
spite of all, Verity should come! If she did nothing and Fate 
brought Verity back, who could blame her? 

That had rung like an echo through her lonely days—the 
echo of the hunger of her soul, if such a thing could be. And 
yet when the miracle had occurred it had all but killed her. 

After all, what had her sacrifice amounted to ? She had hung 
around where danger lurked, and this was the result! This 
was the end of the only unselfish thing she had ever done. 

The soul that Ezra had awakened cried out against the 
wrong done to it. It seemed to stand aloof from the con¬ 
sciousness of the wretched woman. It was a ghastly, deathly 
feeling; one, indeed, to terrify. 

She had betrayed her hope for peace and safety. What 
now? 

Jean Fancher wept and shuddered; she grew, at one mo¬ 
ment, defiant and bold; the next, cowardly and cringing. 

“If they found out, what could they do?” So the lurid 
flame rose, flickered, and died. 

“But—Verity!” The sweet fineness of the girl had cut 
like a knife. The sight of her in the railroad station had left 
but a superficial impression compared to the one in the grave¬ 
yard. And she had come back to the old man who had served 
her; she had come to that lonely grave, her childish shrine. 
Even in her own sense of degradation, Jean Fancher was glad 
because Verity was not ungrateful; selfish. 

“I—I mustn’t touch her. I must not see her again. But 
where can I go—where can I go?” 

The oncoming storm and physical fear shook her. She, 
who longed for death, abstractedly, clung to it at every turn, 
desperately, tenaciously. 

“The house may be blown down, like the others”; she 
quivered; “the sparks from the chimney may set it afire—• 
like the others.” 


268 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


She shivered and shook. 

She was still in her shabby day clothes; and she had built a 
fire on the ashy hearth. There was a little table drawn close 
to it with fragments of untasted food, and when Jean Fancher 
was not pacing the floor, she crouched on the cot, looking 
senselessly at the food. Under the cot was her trunk. She 
presently drew it forth and opened it. 

There was comfort in inanimate things. She placed her 
poor belongings near her: a couple of gowns, a coat, under¬ 
clothing, and—the package! The package she did not 
open, but she held it close, fondling it as she might a little 
child. 

Then, again, she marshalled her forces to combat the 
physical fear that once more threatened control; she repeated, 
mechanically, old Ezra’s words of cheer—how meaningless 
they sounded. Then she besought Ezra’s God to come to her 
aid—how distant and hard He seemed. 

“Dont leave me in the dark,” she moaned. “Come close. 
Let me know that You are here. Make me know it!” 

Ezra had told her to open the door and windows of her 
soul and let God in. She tried to, but she was helpless. 
She could not let God in! And God heeded her not. 

“I’ll set the light in the window!” But with that thought 
came another. Not Ezra, but Verity might respond! 

And then it seemed as if God did heed. He seemed to be 
standing out there in the black night—standing between her 
and Verity. Holding them apart sternly, commandingly. 

Her sacrifice, her one blessed offering, Ezra’s God might 
accept that. So Jean Fancher did not move toward the 
window. 

“Nearer waters! Nearer waters!” What was that about 
the nearer waters? The nearer waters had driven her back, 
always, on the rocks; but they must not drive her now! She 
must struggle to get away from shore. 

“1 dare not open the windows!” the trembling woman 
whispered, “but I’ll unlock the door.” 

This she did, then went back to the cot and took up the 
package. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 269 

Presently she opened it and slowly drew forth the treasures 
as a lonely, punished child might, for comfort. 

A baby dress, yellow and stained; a crooked little shoe that 
had once covered a small foot of a baby learning to walk. 
Some photographs: a baby face; faces of a few men, men who 
had helped instead of damning—at a pinch. Jean Fancher 
had kept them to balance her account with men. Lastly, 
more photographs and letters. There were photographs of 
foreign countries, places where happiness had held brief 
carnival. Photographs of a woman, fair, laughing, lovely; 
a woman doomed to slow death and degradation. Could she 
ever have looked like that? Jean Fancher gazed upon the 
pictures as if she, a stranger, were trying to understand how 
life could so doom. . . . Then a garden, and a child, and 

that same laughing woman—with a difference! That dif¬ 
ference was what had haunted the life of the woman on the 
cot. It had damned her, saved her, carried her to heights, 
and dashed her to lowest depths, but always the difference 
was to grip her. It gripped her now; gripped her savagely. 

Presently Jean Fancher began to sing—to ward off her 
increasing fear of the relentless, oncoming storm. 

“Till the storm of life—be past. . . .” 

“While the nearer waters roll”;—and how they were 
rolling! 

“I—cannot bear it!” The words were wrung from the 
blue lips. “I—I don’t care—I must get near someone, some¬ 
one!” 

She pushed her treasures aside. Some fell to the floor. 
She tried to get up. She would run out into the storm. Any¬ 
thing was better than to sit and wait for destruction. A 
terrific blast struck the house, the ashes flew about the room; 
the door burst open, and the light went out! 

“God!” cried Jean Fancher, and fell back upon the couch. 

She lay like one dead—stiff, cold, grim-jawed. 

And Verity, groping through the storm, found the door of 
the yellow house open. She went in, still feeling her way in 
the dark, but remembering; rememhering. There were the 
stairs; here would be the door to the living room! Yes!— 


270 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


madly whirling embers marked the hearth. So! And across 
the floor Verity stepped on tiptoe. She seemed afraid of 
waking something. Ghosts. How horribly afraid she used 
to be of ghosts long, long ago, and of those sad, demented 
ghosts of men and women who dwelt there long, long ago! 
They were the worst of all. Dead ghosts just walked and 
you could not feel them, but the live ghosts could sit and 
stare at you and feel for you; get you, laugh at you while they 
held you with strong, clutching fingers. 

“Oh!” moaned Verity, just as the child of long ago had 
moaned. 

Then the groping hands hit against the table; felt for, and 
found, the lamp. 

Fortunately Verity had closed the outer door behind her. 
There was comparative calm within. She bent and took a 
splinter of wood from the hearth, lighted it at a glowing coal, 
and touched the wick of the lamp. 

Then she looked around fearfully, agonizingly, and saw 
Jean Fancher on the couch. 

Mechanically Verity did what she never afterward remem¬ 
bered. She listened for the heart beats and caught them. 
Faint, irregular, almost gone; then recurring. She chafed 
the cold, stiff hands; at length the fingers moved, the lips 
trembled. Then Verity went to the hearth and deliberately 
mended the fire; it must be made to burn steadily. 

There was tea in a pot on the table—it still was warm. She 
poured a little in a cup, and held it to the lips of the woman 
on the couch. 

Hours seemed to pass while the kindlings caught; then the 
logs brightened, and the room glowed, and the heat reached 
every corner, while the storm howled and beat against the 
house. 

“Try to drink this.” Verity spoke aloud. She dared to, 
for she was in the presence of life, not death, and relief gave 
her strength. 

“No.” 

“You must, dear. And do not be afraid of me—really, I 
only want to help you.” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


271 

The close-shut lids flickered but did not lift—and then 
tears, hot, big tears, rolled down the scarred and livid face. 

“Go away! For the love of—of God, go away!” 

“No, I am going to stay.” This came firmly, as one speaks 
to a child who must be pacified as well as controlled. “See. 
Mrs. Fancher. I am going to make you comfortable.” 
Verity lifted the nerveless form, pulled at the pillows, shifted 
her burden, and placed it straight and orderly. “Now, then! 
Is that better?” she asked, fearing the woman was again 
losing consciousness. 

“Yes.” 

“Will you lie still while I heat some water—make fresh 
tea?” 

“Yes.” Jean Fancher had abandoned herself to the in¬ 
evitable. She was too weak either to suffer or to thrill with 
joy. She simply lay quiet and—drifted, she knew not where. 

A half-hour later Verity stood triumphant over the couch. 
She had fed the sick woman, little by little, toast dipped in 
milk; had coaxed some hot tea through the purple lips. 

“Now take a nap!” she had pleaded, “and I’ll tidy things 
up. The wind must have got inside.” 

And while Jean Fancher lost consciousness—it was more 
that than sleep—Verity moved about noiselessly. She 
brushed the ashes from the floor. She gathered the gar¬ 
ments from the chair and placed them in the trunk. She 
picked up letters, scattered photographs, and then—some¬ 
thing happened! 

Verity was sitting on the floor when she became aware of 
her identity—sitting braced against the cot, a photograph in 
her hands and the even breathing of Jean Fancher in her ears. 

Thought came slowly, disconnectedly. For some time, 
apparently, she had not been thinking, but merely looking; 
looking. 

“So the—the photograph was here all the time,” she 
mused. “Mrs. Fancher has found it.” 

Then the baby dress, the crooked shoe. 

“Well, what of that?” But Verity could not make it 


272 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


seem right even though she repeated several times, “What of 
that?” She felt as if she had been suddenly cast adrift amid 
a mass of wreckage. Some bits hit her, hurt her; others 
floated by, and though she reached out to them she could 
not grasp them. They eluded her. The little dress and 
shoe escaped her. “What of that?” she muttered. 

The storm grew in fury. As if wind and rain and sleet 
were not enough, a flash of lightning, occasionally, drove like 
a blazing sword through the dark, and the thunder crashed 
and reverberated. 

Then—it must have been near daybreak—Jean Fancher 
stirred, turned weakly toward the fire, and opened her 
eyes. 

She saw Verity, saw what she held in her hands, and she 
groaned. 

“Where did you find this?” The question sounded sane 
and natural enough, but it rang in the ears of Jean Fancher 
like blinding accusation. 

“Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?” she groaned. “I 
did not mean, God knows, I did not mean-” 

“What?” The word was weighted with alarm; with in¬ 
tangible, groping fear. “Mean what ?” 

“That—that you should ever know. They will not be¬ 
lieve it, but you must; you must! I meant, as God hears me, 
to hold to what I swore.” 

“Lie quiet—you will be very ill again.” Verity rose and 
took the fluttering hands in hers. “Listen—you and I are 
here alone. You must tell me what you mean. But not 
now. We must take no chances.” 

And the storm, that did so much damage on sea and land, 
served Verity and Jean Fancher well. It shut them apart 
from others for days. It delayed the Boston boat and kept 
Ezra away. 

Verity nursed the sick woman, cooked and guarded the 
house; ate, slept, grew old, old, and listened. God! how she 
listened; almost died when the panting voice rehearsed the 
ghastly tragedy pertaining to Delmar and the trial. Once she 
had said to something Jean Fancher was saying: 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


273 

“No one—you, they—any one—has the right to keep the 
truth from me. I am not afraid of truth!” 

The words sounded strange and stupid to that listening 
part of Verity. 

It took three days to tell the pitiful, devastating story; 
it took dark, stormy nights, while Jean Fancher slept, for 
Verity to understand, accept, straighten her young shoulders, 
and learn a mighty lesson. 

Occasionally, when Jean Fancher rambled, Verity asked a 
question. She must not misunderstand. Some things were 
so unbelievable; others seemed as if she had always known 
about them. 

“You mean that Barney—is my father?” 

“Yes.” 

“Barney? You must be mad! Think!'” 

Then someone laughed. The sound frightened Verity— 
could that be her laugh? It terrorized Jean Fancher. 

“Oh, don’t!” she pleaded. “Don’t hate me. Oh! I 
could not bear that.” 

“I do not hate you. It’s queer, but I have a—a belonging 
feeling that I never had before. It was that feeling that 
seemed queer, that made me laugh. You see, no one can 
keep your own away from you. It just comes back to you. 
Barney could not make me belong; but you and I belong. 
People cannot get ahead of God!” 

Jean Fancher turned her face away, thus hiding the scarred 
cheek. In that position Verity, every sense tingling, could 
find, in the woman, the pretty creature of the summerhouse. 
It was like groping her way back in the dark, and then sud¬ 
denly—seeing! Only now it seemed to be Verity in the 
creaky rocker and the woman was in her arms. It was as if 
time were turned upside down. 

“I’ve ruined his life and yours!” moaned the stricken 
voice against Verity’s breast. 

“No; no one can ruin another’s life if he refuses to have it 
ruined.” 

“You mean that I have not ruined your life?” Jean Fan¬ 
cher gasped. 


274 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“No. Sometimes I think you have brought my life to 
me—the life that others tried to take from me. As if they 
could!” 

There were hours when the sick woman could not hold to 
reality; her weakened brain refused to function. 

“I—I am going out—on the tide,” she whispered. “Hold 
me! Hold me!” 

“Yes, Mother!”—it had taken time and courage to say the 
word, but it recalled the darkening mind. 

“What did you say?” 

“I said that I would hold you, Momsey!” That was 
harder. The intimate touch all but unnerved the girl. 

“Ducky-darling!” the words choked the weak voice. 

'Then: 

“Can—do you—remember how—we were to have a—little 
home—just big enough for two, ducky-darling?” Verity had 
forgot that, but it came back to her, dimly. “I—I tried to— 
to get the little house, but they would not—let me have it.” 

“Who, Momsey?” 

“Men. Men. Always—big houses for a time—then— 
nothing. And I only wanted, really, just you and the little 
house. There was never room in the big houses for you, 
ducky-darling.” 

Weirdly Verity was thinking of how she had beaten off the 
boys with a broken oar; how she had fled from the mountains. 
She seemed to be beating a danger from the woman she held. 

“Men; men!” moaned the quavering voice. 

“We’ll have the little house together, Momsey, just you 
and I!” 

Then Jean Fancher sobbed weakly and shook her head. 

And during those storm-held days Verity read letters— 
they were hers; hers; she must know all that there was to be 
known. Often the wide, dark eyes of the sick woman were 
upon her as she read; watching, fearing. 

Letters from Barney—one written at the time when every¬ 
thing had been snatched from him. 


Go. I shall never divorce you. Take what is yours. Go! 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


275 


“And I—I took you,” the faint voice choked, “because 
I loved you. I lied the blackest lie a woman can in order to 
—to keep you.” 

“There, there, Momsey, it’s past now. We will have the 
little house-” 

“But—he may find us! I was always afraid of him-” 

“Who, Barney?” 

“Yes. He was so good—I was afraid of his goodness. He 
was so—so still. I had to do something because—he 
wouldn’t. Oh!” 

“Never mind, dearie. You will never be afraid again. 
You have me.” 

“I—have—you!” the sobbing words fell into a moan. 
Then sleep came. 

On the night of the third day Verity felt that she knew all 
that there was in the world to know. 

She had done the plain tasks of nursing; she had called 
upon no one. As upon the day of her birth, so she and her 
mother fought it out alone. 

She wanted Ezra more than she had ever wanted any one. 

Ezra had saved her mother. Saved her! She would wait 
for Ezra. 

Verity did not seriously consider that death hovered; she 
was more concerned with life. Life at its strangest, grim¬ 
mest, and fullest. 

She grew very tender as the hours passed. She was strong, 
ready to defend the small, piteous thing that clung to her; 
nestled against her; who was Momsey at one moment, and 
then a little helpless child. Things did get so twisted, so 
confused. 

“No one could blame or punish a child who did not know 
any better.” At one moment that thought swayed Verity. 

“Of course not!” 

“Oh, but your arms are so—wonderful!” The sick voice 
trailed plaintively. 

“Lie close, Momsey dear, close.” 

“Did—did God send you?”—vaguely. 

“Yes.” 


276 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“I—left the door open—as that good old man told me to.” 

“And I came in, Momsey.” 

“But I did not put the light in the window!” This de¬ 
fiantly, as if protecting her rag of honour. 

“You did not need to, dear. I was coming all the time!” 

“Yes, all the time, and I did not know.” 

So they talked in snatches, talked irrationally, but terribly 
rationally, too. 

“Do you—love—Barney?” This was asked wonderingly. 

Verity started at the question. 

“Oh, yes!” she replied. “He is—blessed. Always so 
alone—you see, he cannot give himself freely, because it 
isn’t his way.” 

“I’m sorry I hurt him,” Jean Fancher panted. 

“I know you are, Momsey. We’ll make it up to him.” 

“Not I, but you! You must make it up to him!” 

On the third day the sun went down in a blaze of glory and 
the flattened sea, “too full for sound or foam,” rose and fell 
at high tide. 

Verity, with the scarred face held close to her breast, heard 
the whistle of the Boston boat, heard the clanging chains and 
cheery voices, but she did not move. 

“Sing to me, ducky-darling.” 

“Yes, Momsey. What shall I sing?” 

“Till the storms of—life-” 

“All right, dearie. 

“‘Safe into the haven guide-’” 

And then because Verity was close to the limit of endurance, 
she seemed to see the grave of the Unknown Woman open; 
saw someone she had never known, and yet knew so well, rise, 
pause and— 

“Oh, receive my soul at last!” 

“Ducky-darling, will God—understand?” 

“Yes. He will understand, Momsey.” 




SMOTHERED FIRES 


277 


“You—are sure?” 

“Very sure.” 

Something heavy was dragging Verity down; she strug¬ 
gled; she fought it off—she was free! 

She stood by the cot. She had gently laid her burden 
down even while she struggled. 

How quiet, how lovely the sleeping face was on the 
pillow, with the ugly scar hidden! 

“Momsey!” 

There was no answer. 

“Momsey!” 

No movement. 

“Oh! oh!” the cry rang out. It filled the yellow house. 

But someone was coming at last—someone to—to help. 

Ezra stood in the doorway. His old face was anxious, 
alarmed. 

“Oh! Granddad, she—is dead, dead! She’s gone—oh! 
she’s gone to the haven-” 

“Hold tight, little gal Verity, hold tight.” 

Ezra strode heavily across the floor and caught Verity in 
his arms. The contact calmed her, cleared her brain. 

“She is—my mother!” The words fell like shocks. “They 
all tried to—to keep me from her. You—you saved her. 
She is my mother.” 

Ezra was never taken ofl>guard. He had in his time steered 
many a craft through dangerous seas; had helped lost crea¬ 
tures to find the way home. He commanded the situation 
now. He could wait for understanding. In the meantime, 
he ordered: 

“Lass, go to my cabin; do not speak to a soul. I will fetch 
help later. Go!” 

And in the quiet of the early gloaming Verity obeyed. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


I T WAS over, and the sandy soil was patted evenly down 
over Jean Fancher’s little grave close—oh, so piteously 
close!—to that of the Unknown Woman. 

“Seems like they two will kind of keep each other com¬ 
pany,” old Ezra had comforted as he and Verity and a small 
group of people stood on that last day by the grave, 
“ and when the call comes to them to rise and enter in, it may 
.be that they will clasp hands and find the way together, 
remembering you, lass.” 

Verity listened, her tearless eyes raised bravely to meet 
the effort the old man made in her behalf. 

And then they went back and closed the yellow house. 

“I ’11 have it boarded up to-morrow,” Ezra said. 

“Yes, and make it strong, Granddad; strong to—to keep 
things in—and out!” 

“There, there, lass, hold tight. It may be that, in time, 
sunshine and air may cleanse the place and happy folk may 
bless it.” 

“Never, Granddad, never! It is haunted!” 

Anna Thomley had been written to, had replied briefly 
that the woman’s affairs were none of her concern and to have 
the house boarded up. 

So Verity and old Ezra took command, and when the boards 
were nailed against intrusion, their task seemed done. 

“And now, lass, come and rest.” 

Side by side they turned their backs on the yellow house and 
set their faces toward Ezra’s cabin, where God was. 

For a week they dwelt there in peace. They did not mention 
the past or the future. They kept to the smallest space of 
the present that they could detach. It was not day by day 
to them, but hour by hour. 


278 


SMOTHERED FIRES 279 

They performed the household tasks, they fished, and 
mended nets. 

The letters that came were often disregarded. 

“I cannot explain, Granddad,” Verity said, “but they 
do not seem to be my letters. I—I cannot seem to 
understand them, nor why strangers are writing them to 
me. 

“The feeling will pass, lass. God is waking you up gentle¬ 
like. When the light floods in, it will be no shock.” 

“Perhaps.” This with a quiver. “I seem, Granddad, so 
real, this /. Sometimes I feel my arms, my face, and wonder 
why they feel different, feel like mine at last. You see, 
knowing about myself makes me so much realer, safer.” 

“And that, too, is God’s doing, lass.” 

“Yes. Others muddled things so.” 

Verity was waking. 

“Hushing things up, calling things by other names, doing 
things when all the time they wanted to do other things. 
Granddad!” Ezra looked up from the net in his trembling 
hands. “I think I begin to understand life. It’s this way. 
You cannot be better, act better, so long as you keep wanting 
to do something else. You must want to do what you do, be¬ 
cause the best of you knows it is right—or you might just as 
well let the other part of you—have its fling and get done 
with it!” 

“Gosh-a’mighty.” Ezra folded his hands helplessly. 
“Meaning?” he asked, patiently. “Meaning?” 

And now Verity was awake, vitally, glowingly. 

“Oh! Granddad, I cannot make you see everything, for 
you do not know the people and the happenings that have 
been crowded into the time since I went away from here— 
went as little gal Verity.” 

“I—I might grip a bit of it,” Ezra faltered. “I sense a 
lot, at times, by the help of God.” 

“Well, I mean this: when you are living one thing and 
holding in your mind, or in your soul, to another, you are not 
yourself and no one can treat you wisely, for they are not 
seeing the real you.” 


280 SMOTHERED FIRES 

Ezra listened, looked vague, and sent a swift prayer to 
Heaven for help. 

“Barney should either have held my mother against her 
poor little weak self, or he should have let her go—go free and 
for ever. Because he did not, everything was twisted. He 
grew silent—oh, he can be so terribly still! And then folks 
could not get near him. He wanted—oh, Granddad, he 
wanted to love, be happy, but he kept acting another part. 
So he hurt others and twisted their lives. When, when—I 
knew my mother, Granddad, something very wonderful hap¬ 
pened. All my life I shall love to remember it. Whatever 
she had done or been, she had always been herself, and I 
could get near something real . She—she told me that she 
had been afraid of Barney’s goodness. Well, I’m not much 
' afraid of anything, but I understood. I never could get near 
to Barney in the belonging way, because he was not showing 
his real self and he did not seem real.” 

Out of all this old Ezra snatched at drifting particles and 
held them close. 

“His real self,” he muttered. “Them be sacred words of 
leading, lass. Your task lies near at hand. Find the real 
self of that lonely, reaching man. He belongs to you. For 
the sake of her who drifted far, it is your bounden duty to 
find the real man of him—and comfort it!” 

Verity stared. 

“You mean,” she whispered, “that I must go back where 
I never belonged; where I was only taken because it seemed 
the best way—and where they will be ashamed of me now 
that I have found out?” 

“I do that, lass! What else? What claims have you 
elsewhere ?” 

“I—I am going to make my own life. I do not want to 
disturb theirs—their safe, guarded lives. I mean to have my 
life. Mine!” 

“Not till you’ve done your duty, lass, as God will show 
you how to do it. I ain’t seeking to point your way, and what¬ 
ever line you take I’ll be as close to you as the Lord allows, 
but it seems to me that you have something to tell; something 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


281 

to give to them what did the best they knowed by you, and 
when that’s done the next step will be plain. It don’t pay to 
look to the top of the long climb, lass. One step, you 
know.” 

For two days longer Ezra and Verity fished and did the 
household tasks. On the third day, while they sat in the 
witching light of the driftwood fire on the clean-swept hearth, 
Verity said quietly: 

“I’m going back, Granddad—and see what will happen.” 

“That’s the lass! See what will happen and be guided by 
it. Just get yourself, your little wanting, demanding self, 
out of sight, and then see what will happen.” 

“Barney is on his way home, Granddad. I had a letter to¬ 
day—it seemed to be a letter to me; the me that is real. The 
letter was forwarded by Ted Lewds. Ted’s quite wonderful, 
Granddad, in one way: life never knocks him out—he never 
dives under; he keeps on top. He knows something big has 
happened here, but he hasn’t asked a question.” 

“That sort often is powerful swimmers for a long stretch,” 
Ezra commented. “Keeping on top is a grand thing.” 

Verity smiled wanly. 

“Yes,” she whispered as if to herself, “for the long stretch 
one has to keep on top.” 

It was just two weeks after Jean Fancher’s death that Verity 
made her decision about going back and awaiting the coming 
of Austen, who had cabled to Lewis a short, blunt message. 

Nothing accomplished. Home on the Cedric. 

“The king of France and ten thousand men,” irrelevantly 
chanted Lewis as he beat his razor on the strop, “marched up 
the hill and down again.” 

Lewis was in an almost ribald state of mind. He had not 
asked any questions, but he had kept up rather strenuous 
thinking. 

“It’s all too devilish asinine for me,” he concluded, and 
raised a steady hand to his task. 


282 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


And while Verity, unannounced, travelled to New York and 
while Austen tossed on the high seas and realized as he never 
had before how ineffectual he was, at the best, Constance 
lived through her days, outwardly more blithe than usual, 
but deeply reflecting upon the abstract state in which she 
found herself. 

Certain obvious facts could be counted upon, and to 
those she held strenuously. 

Vance was gaining in strength and vision day by day. 

One could afford to be gloriously happy over that. 

His delicate consideration amounted to high art—but what 
did it mean? 

Beginning at the decision about the south bedchamber— 
what did it mean? Over the widening gap Warren's smile 
and fine attentions took on at times a menacing interpreta¬ 
tion. 

“ Even if he found out that he had done a mad thing—marry¬ 
ing me—he would never let me know. But, oh! I wish he 
would not try so hard. It is humiliating.” 

Then—and it was to her credit—Constance regarded War¬ 
ren's position rather than her own. 

“But to hold to the decent, kindly course would mean— 
what , to him? Accepting from the woman he no longer 
loves—everything! Oh, what shall I do? Every door is 
locked.'' 

And Warren, smiling, courteous in his solitude, flung out 
to himself: “This damned thing must end.” 

But how? That was the rub. 

And, strange, as it might seem, the dramatic in Warren rose 
to the surface. The thrill of adventure, at times, overcame 
him. 

He would begin life better equipped than he had ever been. 
A beggar, to be sure, but a beggar so well nourished, so un¬ 
afraid, that he could tackle any obstacle now with hope of 
success. He owed that to Constance and her dream and his! 
They had that in common. If now they could only clasp 
hands over the beautiful dead thing and be friends , what 
might not happen? 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


283 

“It will be a damnable, rotten mess, if we donV’he 
thought. 

And then a real inspiration came to Warren that stiffened 
into definite form as the time passed. 

“We will be friends!” He took that as a starting point. 
“She and I have had this dream together. She bargained 
for two years. I outstayed the bargain, that is all. There’s 
no earthly reason, if we use common sense, why we should 
hate each other. We might make rather a splendid thing of 
this experience, if we deal with it like human beings, not 
damned fools. According to rule, in order to set her free, 
we must act like asses; but instead, suppose we got together 
and spoke God’s simple truth without bitterness and then 
parted, friends. Friends who had made a mistake, but 
friends nevertheless ?” 

Walking the trails in the blessed sunlight, walking up¬ 
rightly, undauntedly, Warren threshed his problem, and 
then it was that his big idea caught and gripped him. 

He would write the experience! Not in verse, but in plain 
prose that any one might follow. 

Here was a new brand of love between man and woman. 
A love that could accept over obstacles, and relinquish, when 
Fate decreed, over other obstacles. A love that, outliving 
passion, could merge into friendship. Man’s honour; wo¬ 
man’s honour backed by fearless truth. 

But above all it was the rending asunder of the immediate 
tie that confronted Warren. The story halted at that break. 
Once free, he would go back to that Italy of his; go to that 
inn where the dream began, and there weave it into reality, 
a thing that could hold place in life. 

So sure did Warren feel of his ability to succeed, once 
he put his hand to the task of hewing his own way through 
life, that he again contemplated, for the last time, approach¬ 
ing his aunt. But he recoiled; the mere thought dimmed his 
vision. 

And then one day, lost in meditation, he found himself by 
Nancy Goodall’s gate; heard the cheery old soul greet him 
as she might a looked-for guest. 


284 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“Well, now, dear suz! How things do turn out! I was 
just thinking of you, Mr. Vance, and wishing all sorts of good 
things for you and—lo and behold, here you be! Come in, 
come in.” 

Warren followed the thin, bent form to the house and into 
the living room from which the dividing line of the Smiths and 
Goodalls had been obliterated. A general confusion of 
goods and chattels marked the place where once rigidity had 
held. 

“Set, Mr. Vance! It does a body good to look on you and 
know that the day of miracles ain’t done with. That day 
when they had the operation, I set by Jonas and thought of 
how the dear Lord in Galilee made the blind man see.” 

Warren’s lips twitched. Nancy got under his shield of 
protection. Her motherliness reached to the depths of his 
denied son-hood and troubled them. 

Suddenly he felt a wave of remorse overcome him. He 
recalled the blow he had given Jonas Goodall. That blow 
had been the beginning of the fatal illness. This lonely old 
woman was being divinely kind to—to her husband’s 
murderer! 

Of course this was absurd and had its roots in the state 
of mind that made the future lose its terrors. 

And then Nancy did a remarkable and nerve-racking thing. 
She drew her little creaky rocker close to Warren’s chair and 
laid her thin, blue-veined hand upon his knee. 

“I want to say something to you, Mr. Vance. I seem 
driven to the saying and it looks like the Lord headed you to 
the hearing. It’s about the wrong Jonas did that day, 
when-” 

“Don’t!” Warren raised a warding hand. “Don’t, Mrs. 
Goodall.” 

“It best be said, Mr. Vance. Smothered fire is dangerous. 
It may break out where least expected. I’m speaking now 
foi Jonas. You can’t deny the dead. He was powerful 
sorry when it was too late—jest like a bad child that had done 
a wrong. If he’d had time he would have done his best to 
undo the wrong, but he didn’t get the chance.” 



SMOTHERED FIRES 


285 


“He told you, Mrs. Goodall?” 

“Yes. Jest like a naughty child—but sorry, oh! so sorry. 
I ain’t one as pries much in what don’t concern me, Mr. 
Vance, but I know something is bitter wrong up to Five 
Winds. I know that the folks in the village have wagging 
tongues, and I’ve spent many a night since I laid Jonas away, 
thinking and thinking as how you and Jonas might sorter get 
together and patch things up.” 

Warren simply stared. Nancy’s nervous fingers clutched 
the cloth under her hand, and then she chokingly went on: 

“I alias hold that getting at a safe distance and looking 
things over often works wonders. Suppose—oh, I don’t 
know as I can say it—but suppose you come to Jonas, and 
Jonas being actually sorry, and you being open-minded, 
you’d let Jonas—help.” 

“Help? How help?” Warren felt his face flush, his weak 
eyes sting. 

“Mercy! Mercy! How hard it is to get a simple thing 
over. I mean, lend you money—to get away and think 
things out!” 

“Mrs. Goodall!” 

“Well, couldn’t you for my sake? For the sake of Jonas?” 

“Certainly not!” 

“Just borrow—not take!” Nancy was getting frantic. 

“I—I do not understand what you are talking about, Mrs. 
Goodall.” 

“ Don’t say that—if you do know, Mr. Vance. Don’t mud¬ 
dle things worse than they are muddled. You can afford to 
be honest wfith me. The soul of me cries out to help, and if 
you can be helped—oh! can’t you see you oughter be 
helped?” 

“So the affairs of Five Winds are common talk, not merely 
drunken folly!” thought Warren, and drew back. 

“Bad comes out of stubborn resistance, Mr. Vance.” 
Nancy was forging ahead in spite of inward misgiving. “I 
ain’t going into the depths of things; I ain’t going to leap at 
conclusions, but I do say, and hold to it, that if you jest 
packed your bag and—and took the bit in your teeth—no 


286 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


matter what is the matter, I know that a lot of trouble would 
be saved. While you're here and close to things you can't, 
and Constance can't, see straight. The two of you should 
get apart, and then there wouldn't be any senseless waste. 
If you was my son and Jonas’s, we’d bid you take a leave of 
absence while the Lord fixes what needs fixing without all 
this eternal muddling!" Nancy flung her hands wide. 
“There!" she panted, and waited. 

“But I might never be able to repay you." Warren felt 
dizzy as he leaped over the hurdles. 

“You will! You cannot prove yourself here, Mr. Vance; 
the clutch has got you as well as the rest, but you will be able 
to prove yourself a good, upstanding young man as can face 
the world, even Coverly, and never flinch. In that day, 
* there’ll be understanding. Oh! won’t you do this for Jonas 
and me? It would be a mighty comfort to think that Jonas 
did one big kindly thing for a human critter.” 

“I follow you"—and so Warren was following. “I—I will 
see your—lawyer," he said. 

“You mean, you will borrow the money, and so feel free 
and independent?" 

“I may." 

“Then let it be between us, Mr. Vance. What good can 
come in throwing more fodder to overfed folks?" 

“I must think this over." Warren rose gropingly. There 
were times when he forgot that he could see. “I will let 
you know. But"—and here that strange twitching twisted 
the firm, fine lips—“you are a wonderful woman, Mrs. 
Goodall." 

“Don’t say that, son. I’m just a lonely left-over one as 
can’t bear to drop from the ranks." 


CHAPTER XXVII 


N EW YORK looked cold and strange to Verity. A 
drippy, chilly rain was falling; the streets were shin¬ 
ing and the lights looked golden in the silver mist. 
“It is like trying to find someone—my old self,” murmured 
the girl, beckoning a cab. 

She had her key to Austen’s apartment. She wanted to 
go to Lewis, but a sudden, sickening realization of the taste of 
the fruit of the tree of knowledge made her wince. 

“I can never again act as if I did not know, did not care,” 
she thought. “I know—everything. No presuming, Verity 

-” She paused, not daring to voice her own name— 

Barney’s name. “They would not have me as I was. 
They fixed me up and made a little niche for me and were 
deadly kind, but—no more niches! Here and hereafter, 
take as is, or leave alone.” 

And never had Verity felt so desperately isolated as she 
did at that moment. 

“It’s like sneaking into Barney’s home when no one is 
looking.” She paid the cabman at the door and went into 
the house. 

Hallmen and telephone girl nodded in friendly fashion. 
The elevator boy grinned pleasantly. 

How empty and still the apartment was! Noiselessly, 
Verity tiptoed through the hall. Apparently Sheila O’Neil 
had but recently left the kitchen—there were preparations 
for a meal on the table: vegetables set in shining glass dishes 
ready for the fire; an opened cook book—Sheila never 
trusted memory when a masterpiece was at stake—was 
spread on the table. 

On, down the hall, Verity passed, scarcely breathing as 

287 


288 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


she went, like a little pale ghost in the familiar rooms, seek¬ 
ing—what? She knew not. 

She paused by the library door, and her breath, for an 
instant, stopped. There sat Austen in his deep chair! His 
head was resting on the cushion; his hands lay spread on 
the tufted chair arms, relaxed, lifeless 

How thin, frightfully thin, and pale he looked, and how 
strangely young to have endured all that Verity now knew 
that he had endured. All that she had learned lay always 
close in her thought. 

Her quick sympathies were aroused; her young strength 
met his need, and she recalled the words of her mother: “I 
am sorry I hurt him!” 

He had been so cruelly hurt; he had borne it in his own way 
.because he was he! 

Verity raised an arm and braced herself against the door 
jamb. She looked weary, and felt desperately alone. Some¬ 
thing in her reached forth to Austen; something of which 
she had never been aware before. It was compelling; it 
frightened her; it was an overpowering emotion that if re¬ 
sponded to would hold her to Austen for ever; if denied, would 
drive her hopelessly from him. But what could she do? 

Austen, as people often do, became suddenly aware of a 
presence in the room with him. Without moving, except to 
open his eyes, he looked at Verity. 

Her attitude of detachment touched him; the yearning on 
her face startled him. 

He did not motion her to come to him; he made no gesture 
toward her. Over the quivering silence he spoke as one might 
over wireless: 

“My dear‘it is you, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, Barney.” They smiled faintly. 

“Verity, do not look at me like that. I want to—tell you 
everything; talk to you, as I promised to some day; tell you 
about—your father and mother. But I’m horribly tired— 
just home, you know.” 

“I—I know about everything, Barney.” The lips twisted 
convulsively, and Verity leaned more heavily upon her lifted 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


289 

arm. One cheek was a bit flushed; her colour was always 
peculiar; it drifted across her face like a rosy cloud. 

‘‘You know! Who told you? What have you heard?” 

Austen made an effort to rise, but sank back as if drawn 
by weights. 

“She—she—my mother went to Granddad Ezra—I mean 
she went to Bluff End—because she remembered about me. 
She did not expect to find me there. You see, I went—one 
has to when it is meant that he should. We just naturally 
came together. There isn’t much to tell. She—she was 
sorry she hurt you, she wanted you to know; wanted me—” 
the words broke on a sob, then the voice calmed—“wanted 
me to—to make it up to you if I—if I could, and, oh! Bar¬ 
ney— how I want to!” 

Suddenly the young yearning arms were outstretched pas¬ 
sionately, appealingly, and still Austen sat like something 
carved from stone, but the depths of the self-made man were 
breaking, heaving. The real self of Austen was emerging as 
bare and helpless as upon that day when his life fell in ruin 
about him. 

“She’s dead, Barney. I held her, and then we—we 
buried her by the Unknown Woman’s grave. You remem¬ 
ber, don’t you, Barney, you—you found me there?” 

The tears were streaming down Verity’s face. That crav¬ 
ing that was reaching out to Austen was making its last 
quivering demand. And then Austen drew a long breath. 
His face twitched. His eyes overflowed, and he opened his 
arms wide. 

“Dear little girl! Little Verity. My little girl!” 

Verity was in Austen’s arms; they folded about her, crush¬ 
ing her, hurting her. She laughed convulsively. 

“It’s all so—tremendous,” Austen faltered; “go over it 
slowly, Verity, slowly. She—your mother—told you about 
—me ?” 

And Verity went over it all, slowly and tenderly. 

“Yes, Barney, dear; she told me about you, everything.” 

“She told you about herself—about the—thing I had to do 
to her—not knowing ? The—prison ?” 


290 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


A shudder ran over Verity’s body. 

“Yes, Barney. That was—awful—awful.” 

“It was!” A closer folding of the arms. 

“And she told me about Ted, and her loneliness in—in the 

-” Verity dared not speak the hard word “prison.” 

She hastened on: “—and when she went away! She tried to 
keep her vow^tried to—to save me—that is what she said—• 
save me from her; my mother! Oh! Barney, she did be¬ 
long, you know.” 

“Yes, I know, now. I tried, too, in my way. I was wrong, 
Verity.” 

“I—I think she did not belong to you, Barney, but she did 
to me.” 

“I turned my back on my burden.” Austen groaned the 
words. 

“Never mind, Barney. If I took it up, and did my best, 
then I have paid a little for what you did for me when you 
took me up.” 

“Don’t, little girl, don’t!” 

The arms relaxed, but Verity clung, resting her head upon 
Austen’s shoulder. The motion thrilled him. 

“Will you ever be able to think of me as your father, child ?” 

“No, dear. You’ll be just Barney tome. Just Barney to 
the end.” 

“Is that my punishment?” 

“No, dear; your place—that you gave to me when you 
took me.” 

Verity was smoothing Austen’s tired head. Her healing 
touch was curing the pain, the tense feverishness. 

“I think, Barney”—the words ran into a slow tune—“that 
everything is going to be all right now. All right. No 
making-believe, no fear, nothing but going on; going on.” 

Austen’s eyes closed, his head drooped sideways, resting 
against Verity’s head. 

At last he started up. 

“What has happened?” he asked, bewildered. 

“Nothing, Barney, nothing, and—everything.” Verity 
stretched her cramped body. “Everything!” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


291 


“How rested I feel!” Austen got up. “I was desperately 
tired. Let us have dinner. Verity.” 

Then Verity did and said a strange thing. She moved in 
front of Austen, barring his way. 

“Barney, you are creeping away; hiding behind something 
that should not be there!” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Something that—that made my mother fear you; some¬ 
thing that used to make me lonely. Don’t, Barney, don’t 
hide! No matter what happens, don’t hide!” 

The muscles of Austen’s face twitched. He turned his eyes 
away, then wretchedly glanced back at Verity, permitting 
her to see the sadness and suffering that dimmed them. 

“All right, Barney. We’ll fight it out together, dear. I’ve 
got you now. I mean to keep you!” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


A LL the winds of heaven swept over the hill, driving the 
clouds helter-skelter, tearing them to shreds, bending 
JL -A. the trees and causing them to flap their branches like 
things maddened with fear. 

Within Five Winds House it was quiet. Like the heart of 
the ocean, it remained unmoved by the tumult. 

The clock on the landing ticked precisely and cheer¬ 
fully—what was time to it? “As it was in the beginning, 
is now, and ever more shall be ...” it seemed to 
chant. 

The fire blazed ruddily on the shining hearth, and before 
it sat Austen in a deep chair. Close to him, her head 
pressed against him, was Constance Warren. They had 
been on the trails all day—the soil still clung to their boots; 
the burrs to their clothing. 

They had been to Rocky Lonesome and grimly refrained 
from speaking of their night there once before. Instead 
they had planned for the mill, selected sites, and laughed a 
little, nervously, because everything seemed so strange, so 
unreal. It was like playing with the toys of others. Fear 
was mingled with the joy. 

Under The Pilgrims, on the way down, they had built a 
little fire and cooked a noonday meal. Austen could do mar¬ 
vels on a handful of embers. 

At sunset, by the stone wall at the beginning of the brook 
trail, they had listened to a bird’s song, and when it died away 
and the west glowed ruddily Austen told his story; told it 
simply, sparing himself not at all, but mercifully casting over 
the dead a mantle that shielded all but the outlines of the 
pitiful, weak woman. 

“You see,” he explained, “she at least had the courage of 
292 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


293 


her convictions. Verity sensed that, and clung to it. I had 
my ideals—I mistook them for principles—and so muddled 
my life and the lives of others. At the critical point I failed 
as all must who confuse ideals and principles.” 

“I think, Barney,” Constance replied, looking off over the 
pleasant valleys and hills of her home place, “it is in our 
blood—yours and mine—the wrong inheritance of endurance. 
One should not endure unwisely. Fve learned that. I often 
think of what that Mrs. Winslow of Verity’s school said. 
At first I rebelled against it, feared that she was not fit to 
have young things in her care. I have come to regard what 
she said as an inspiration.” 

“ I have forgot what it was.” Austen was letting the beauty 
of the dying day fill his thought. 

“The difference between the very young and us, Barney, 
is—wings!” 

Austen smiled. “Yes, I remember,” he said, and his eyes 
twinkled. “Roots for the very old; feet for us; wings for the 
young. And”—here Austen’s smile faded—“God keep us 
from clipping wings. That’s the danger. The older people 
always try to get a stranglehold on the younger. They’ll 
have more trouble with wings.” 

A silence, and then Constance said that they must go to 
Lower Farm. Nancy was waiting for them. Still no word 
of Vance Warren! It was like the desperate attempt to 
ignore the lately dead in order to take up life. 

“And there’ll be ham and eggs and waffles and honey.” 
Austen spoke quietly. “After all, there is something 
wonderful, restful, in knowing what to expect.” 

“Perhaps.” Constance gave a little laugh. “But the last 
time I had supper with Aunt Nancy she had broiled ham and 
omelette. The surprise was thrilling. I kept remembering 
it for days.” 

“Is Aunt Nancy sprouting wings?” 

“Barney, I think she has always had them. It may be 
that we have overlooked them.” 

After that happy, peaceful meal at Lower Farm, Austen 
and Constance walked to Five Winds in the silver-white 


294 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


moonlight, the crazy gale beating them this way and that. 

At last they were at the fireside in the quiet house, and the 
ticking of the clock presently became as the stroke on the 
anvil. 

“As—it—was—in—the—beginning, is—now—and . . .” 

Austen could bear it no longer. 

“You sent a telegram bidding me to come, Constance, and 
—here I am.” 

And there he was in a sense that he had not been all 
day. 

“Yes, dear.” The head did not move. Both knew that 
they had the right to be there alone and close, but they did 
not quite realize how it had come about. “I wanted to tell 
you about Vance.” 

“And I want to hear.” 

“It’s all so ordinary and simple, Barney. The difference 
lies in his bravery and the effect. I suppose plain truth 
can always be depended upon at a crisis to tide one 
over.” 

“Over what?” 

“The inevitableness of things, Barney. It is perfectly 
natural that, with restored health and eyesight, Vance should 
look at life at a level angle.” 

“Does that include brutal ingratitude?” 

“Don’t, Barney! Let us be sensible. Suppose it did— 
isn’t that better than working at a problem to which there 
is no answer? Wings, dear, wings. You get higher, see 
farther, on wings!” 

“Go on, Constance.” 

“Well, we had a wonderful talk. I shall never forget it. 
We simply faced facts. We were a bit breathless, but we 
held our own. There were the years, Barney, nearly ten of 
them!” 

“Rot!” Austen ejaculated. 

“And my money. That was more fearsome than the 
years.” 

“He had borne up under that for some time-” 

“That only added to the weight, Barney. Then there 



SMOTHERED FIRES 


295 


were the laws of the State. It is rather horrible, isn’t it, 
dear, to think that we have to gratify the grim monster of 
the moral code by doing a low, mean thing before he will 
sanction the righting of a mistake? There was only one way 
less obnoxious than others, and Vance took it—he has de¬ 
serted me!” 

Austen shivered. 

“Escaping with your money?” he asked. 

“No, he borrowed it from old Uncle Jonas Goodall—that’s 
what he has done, and quite legally, too, Barney.” 

9 “He seems to have erected several legal structures by 
which he could make an ignoble exit.” 

“Barney, dear, I wonder if you are looking at this thing 
from the foot angle or the wing one?” Constance lifted 
her head and looked at him pleadingly. 

“I can only see one thing in all this, Constance. Shorn 
of its theatrical aspect, it is rather an ugly experience for 
you.” 

“A deserted woman, eh, Barney? Is that the way you see 
it? I see it another way. I am a free woman. I wonder if 
you have ever been in a position where freedom on any terms 
would seem glorious?” , 1 

Austen shook his head. _ ^ 

“You’re not a woman, Barney. I should not have asked 
you! Since the laws of my land left Vance small choice, 
why-” 

“Constance”—and there was something akin to fear in 
Austen’s eyes—“your freedom, does it mean so much to you 
that-” { 

“Again, Barney, being a man, you cannot understand. 
Do not try. What is freedom?” 

“Well, what is it?” 

“Choice, willing acceptance, giving where one’s heart and 
soul yearn to give. That , to a woman, is freedom. Duty 
kills her freedom—the aching want to give; give—that means 
salvation, happiness. Oh! When shall we learn that mere 
duty, law, kills love between men and women?” 

“I begin to see!” Austen gave a relieved sigh. 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


296 

“But—how can one be sure, dear?” 

“I—I do not know, Barney. Perhaps one can never be 
sure. That does not change truth. And I should never have 
known this much, except as I have lived and suffered.” 

“And this—this desertion—it does not hurt you, Con¬ 
stance?” 

“No. It was the only way.” 

“My love, my dearest, I see you at last—free!” 

“In time, Barney. There must be the sordid details to 
endure. The price of freedom. Sometimes”—and again 
Constance turned her eyes to the steady glowing fire—“some¬ 
times I think it was all arranged—our little life stories, before 
we came—and that we are simply sent to live them. The 
lines are all written; we play our parts best when we can 
- learn clearly the words and catch the cues.” 

“Is that a dangerous philosophy or a saving one, Con¬ 
stance?” 

“I do not know.” 

“And you are not afraid?” 

“No. I seem to have lost fear.” 

“And—Warren?” The bitterness had left Austen’s tone. 
In a subtle way he felt that Warren held no part in his life 
or Constance’s; that he never had. The realization was al¬ 
most shocking, but it brought peace. 

“He has gone to that little inn in Italy, where he and I 
fell under the spell. He will do brave and fine things, 
Barney. A man who could rise above tradition and preju¬ 
dice, defy the scorn of the—misunderstanding people, 
will surely reach a high goal. He is going to—to write our 
story.” 

“You permitted that?” Austen looked aghast. 

“It was my last gift to him—the only one he could accept. 
I do not know why the giving and taking should sanctify the 
whole thing, but it has, Barney.” 

“We’ve been a bit battered, my love”—this after a pulsing 
silence. “Do you feel battered, Constance?” 

“I do not, Barney. I feel as if every muscle of my soul 
and body had been strengthened.” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


297 


“I understand.” 

And then they talked of the time on beyond the sordid de¬ 
tails that must be endured. 

“We must find our places here among your people and 
mine, Constance. My mother’s blood stirs in my veins. 
Your people, my people—our people.” 

“Yes, Barney, and you must help make better laws. Why, 
it seems like beginning the old story again. You and I will 
carry on—with a difference.” 

“Yes.” 

“And Verity, Barney—what are you going to do with that 
splendid creature?” 

“Nothing!” This with an uneasy stirring. 

“But she’s so young, and that young Lewis—will he not 
hamper-” 

Austen’s lips grew stern. 

“My dear, my dear,” he said, “are we going to forget the 
difference in our carrying on? It seems to me that we have 
only one great duty to such as Verity and Ted: Leave the 
tracks open for them; clear the rubbish!” 

“Oh, Barney, Barney, I had almost forgot! And now I 
can tell you one thing more—I was almost afraid to, but I 
am not afraid now. Often when you and I are together 
and our love draws us closer and closer, I will hear in a bird’s 
song, in the voices of the trees—Vance! Sometimes at a radiant 
sunset hour or when the moon is white on the hill, I will seem* 
to see him passing near; remember him as one does a beautiful 
experience of another life. He was so unreal and yet so 
wonderfully real. Barney, you do understand?” 

“Yes, my beloved, I understand. To such as you and I, 
whose pasts have been hacked and hewed from rigid rock, 
there has come little enough romance, little enough poetry. 
Our inheritance is sterner stuff. Warren was romance to 
you, while I had—you; always you.” 

Constance drew back and looked long in Austen’s eyes. 
Passion, love, purpose flamed in hers. 

“You? You are The way, the truth, the light’ that leads 
to life,” she murmured. “Life, not dreams. You are”— 


298 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


this almost fiercely—“you are my man . Together what may 
we not do, Barney, knowing—knowing, oh! my beloved— 
how bitterly we failed, apart?” 

Barney drew her close, pressed his face to hers. 

Thus was Warren justified! 

It was significant, and perhaps marked the difference be¬ 
tween feet and wings, that while Austen went to Constance’s 
home to play his part in their Big Scene, Verity went to 
Lewis’s apartment. She bribed the hallman to gain en¬ 
trance. He was a new man. Aunt Jane’s privilege had 
paved the way to the bachelor sanctuary. Lewis’s plan of life 
was different, apparently, from most of his associates. 

“A sister, perhaps ?” the hallman asked, never doubting the 
propriety of Verity’s request—there was that about the girl 
that gave confidence. 

“Perhaps. Anyway, it’s all right. I want to surprise 
him.” 

Scruff was deliriously complimentary in his greeting. 
Company meant more to him than tiring rules of eti¬ 
quette. 

When Lewis entered his rooms at six-thirty he found 
Verity curled up on the couch with Scruff included in the 
curl. The dog’s brilliant eyes seemed to convey the idea 
that it was better to be happy than good and advised others 
to let it go at that! 

“Verity!” 

“Hello, Ted! Shall we go out to dinner or shall we”— 
the tone was dangerously pleading—“get a little snack here? 
I’ve been looking in the ice box. There’s plenty-” 

“My dear girl, of course!” Lewis was so happy that he 
became vague. “Where’s Barney?” 

“Gone up to Coverly—to—to”—a dimness rose to the 
lovely eyes—“mend his nets—his and Constance’s.” 

“Oh!” Sudden glory flooded Lewis’s understanding; 
“Warren has-?” 

“Deserted Constance, like a gentleman! I have a long 
letter from Barney. They seem so young and helpless and 
—afraid even to be happy, poor blesseds!—Ted!” 


SMOTHERED FIRES 299 

“Yes.” Lewis was rushing about assembling food, china, 
and silver. 

“While you bustle around I want to tell you something. 
Don’t stop bustling—if you do, I’ll crash through. I’m just 
learning to walk alone and I’m terribly topply.” 

Lewis bustled a bit more energetically. Only when Verity, 
in her story of Bluff End, rose to soul-stirring heights did he 
falter. Once he dropped a glass pitcher, muttered a curse, 
and proceeded to move about with greater skill. 

“And that’s that, Ted! And here am I—myself, at last. 
You and Barney wouldn’t have me as I really was. You 
patched up a kind of girl you liked better. W T ell, I want you 
to feel quite—quite free to do what Vance Warren has done 
to Constance—desert me!” 

Lewis deposited what he had in his hands with a definite 
thud on the table and strode over to the couch. 

“Can’t you see,” he asked, his young eyes stern and sad, 
“that we tried to—to save you—because we loved you?” 

“As if you could! You or any one else, save me; any one! 
But, oh, Ted, when I think what you did for—for my mother, 
I can forgive even that.” 

“Don’t, Verry, don’t.” 

“She told me every little thing—oh! life had hurt her 
so, she had done such wild things—but when the end came, 
you were so good! You stand alone, Ted!” 

“Good God! Don’t you think I know that?” 

And Lewis looked alone in the most tragic, appealing 
sense. 

“Ted, I’m coming! I’m coming! It is going to take time; 
I must find my way—but I’m coming!” 

Verity’s face was shining. 

“Coming where, Verry?” Lewis dared not move. 

“To you, Ted; to you. No senseless rubbish matters— 
try to get that over to your people—I have only Barney, but 
I have Barney, Ted!” 

“Senseless rubbish!” Lewis breathed hard, then bent 
and gathered Verity, and incidentally Scruff, into his strong 
grasp. 


300 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


“I did not know that life could be so wonderful!” he 
whispered. 

“It is wonderful if you don’t slink; if you’re not afraid of 
truth.” 

“Verity! Verity!” breathed Lewis, and he never was 
more earnest. 

Clinging together, they watched the sun go down behind 
the Jersey hills; they watched the path of gold across the 
river fade and fade. Then: 

“Ted, I suppose the world will say ugly things about 
Vance Warren, but it would have said worse if he had not 
done the only thing left for him to do.” 

“The world can be beastly,” Lewis granted. 

“If you let it get its teeth in you, Ted. But I think Vance 
^Warren can shake off the world. Do you mind, Ted, if 
always I remember him with a thrill?” 

“No, I’d think less of you if you did not.” 

“Thanks, Ted. Sometimes in the dark I shall remember 
him. Feel him struggling, trying to feel his way among 
things that were not there, and some that were. I shall often, 
when I’m up against things, hear his laugh—his beautiful, 
brave, daring laugh.” 

“Don’t cry, Verity!” 

“Let me, Ted, just a little. I have just learned how to 
cry. It’s such a luxury.” 

“You sweet little thing!” 

A long silence. 

“I’m all right now, Ted. All right. Let us get supper, 
and afterward let us go and walk; walk—and talk. There 
are to be years of preparation.” 

“Years! Good Lord, Verity—years?” 

“I must round out Barney’s plan for me—but I’ll hurry. 
And you, Ted?” 

“I? Why I’m going to be close beside you, wherever you 
may be.” 

“And I beside you, Ted. Side by side; heads above water 
for the long, long stretch.” 

“Verity, I read something the other day that sticks! ‘To 


SMOTHERED FIRES 


301 


suffer sets a keen edge on what remains. This is a great 
truth and has to be learned in the fire/ Isn’t that ripping? 
Your little fire and Barney’s and mine. I tell you, life’s all 
right! But don’t smother your fires—they are meant to 
light and warm the world.” 


THE END 



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